


Steve and You

by lodgedinmythoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Acquaintances to Friends to More, Allusion to tensions between law enforcement and civilians, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Steve Rogers, Blind Reader, Blindness, Cop Bucky Barnes, Developing Relationship, Disabled Reader, Drama Class, F/M, Hot men in uniform, Mob Boss AU, Mob Boss Steve Rogers, Mutual Pining, Physical Disability, Please just ignore it, Shoddy dispatch call terminology, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, You wouldn't believe how hard it was to find specific info I needed, cop steve rogers, hidden identity, nightclubs, online chatting, retinitis pigmentosa, singer!reader, waitress reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:15:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodgedinmythoughts/pseuds/lodgedinmythoughts
Summary: A small collection of Steve/Reader one shots prompted by the readers.2. Mob Boss AU3. Soulmate AU4. Blind Reader/College AU5. Cop Steve/Diner AU





	1. Intro & Update

Hi, all! So, there are way too many times when I'm in the mood to write but have utterly no clue what to write about, so as a little exercise to get some of those creative juices flowing, and after much thought, I've decided to open up a multi-chapter fic dedicated to **Steve/Female Reader** & **Bucky/Female Reader** one shots prompted by anyone who's interested.

**Please note:** I love me some good smut, but I have to say, writing it takes a hell of a lot out of me. And imma be completely honest: writing it, especially when it's really kinky, is _hard_. For me, at least. Because of that, I kindly ask that your prompts remain rated M or below. There may still be implied/light smut included, just nothing that'd warrant an E rating.

Now that that's all out of the way, do please leave any prompts you'd love to read in the comments, as well as the character involved if you have a preference, and I'll try to fulfill them to the best of my ability! Additional tags will be added along the way.

Thank you in advance - I look forward to your ideas!

  


-lodgedinmythoughts

  


**UPDATE:** Due to some things irl, I will no longer be able to accept requests. Bad timing, I know, considering I started this thing just a little while ago. If I could just live in a bubble and forget the rest of the world existed, I would. However, I will endeavor to get those prompts done that have already been requested! I also fixed the title since this will've been comprised of Steve/Reader only.


	2. Mob Boss AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For elitaone, who requested: "Steve Rogers Mob boss AU, reader is an amateur singer at a bar he goes to. :3"
> 
> Idk if this is what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy! Didn't anticipate it being this long (apologies if it's actually too long) but hey, I had to go where the wind took me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't imagine I'll get every chapter out this quickly, but I think I'll just bask in this timely entry for now hahaha. Also, I quickly realized what a lame ass title this overall fic has but I can't think of anything else, so remain it shall, I guess. *shrugs*

_**Manhattan, 1940** _

The curtain falls from between your slack fingers as you step back and let out an involuntary rush of breath. It’s quite the turnout, as expected for a Saturday night. Only on this particular night, you’re taking center stage in a way you’ve yet to do. You’ve grown somewhat used to performing in front of people, but not on prime weekend nights, not in front of crowds of that size. Tuesday, Wednesday crowds, you could do—not Saturdays.

“They’re only people, dear, same as you and me. Nothing to get in such a tizzy over,” a husky feminine voice says over your shoulder.

You whip around. Standing before you in all her glory is Natalia Romanova. Her gleaming red hair is pinned up in a flawless updo and she’s draped in a violet satin gown that adds to her effortless allure. To complete the picture is the cigarette casually dangled between her gloved fingers.

“Miss Romanova. I-I thought you weren’t performing tonight.” To say you’re surprised is an understatement. In all the time Bruce has let you perform at The Infinity, you’ve never actually met the famed woman whom most patrons come to see.

“Oh, I’m not, but ol’ Bruce didn’t say anything about patronizing the place. Thought I’d come backstage and get a good look at my replacement for the evening. So, whaddya say? Ready to go out there and show those rich bastards what you’re made of? Oh, no—you look just about ready to pass out. You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?”

Her tone is blasé as though there’s no real concern and the rasp in her throat is more pronounced than normal. From what you’ve heard, after damaging her voice, she’s not supposed to be talking much at all, much less smoking, but you’re in no position to tell her that.

“I’m-I’m ok,” you say, smoothing back the rolls in your hair, even though they’re pinned tight and in no danger of going anywhere. “Just…just nervous. I’ve never done this before in front of so many people.”

“Huh. It’s just the same as every other time you open for me. Except now, obviously, you’re not.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Miss Romanova. All those folks out there, every eye on you…”

She shrugs. “Well. Not _every_ eye is on you.” Then her cool and calm facade breaks for just a moment as she shifts on her feet and glances off to the side. “Although…it might just feel like it tonight, is all I’m saying.”

“I—beg your pardon?”

In a move unbecoming of the confident persona the public is familiar with, Miss Romanova emits a puff of smoke near your face, more of an anxious huff than anything, and you cough. “Look, you seem like a smart girl and I’m feeling a little out of sorts tonight. I’m gonna tell you something, but this stays between you and me, got it?”

You’re frozen to your spot, completely lost as to what she’s going on about, but eventually you muster the willpower to nod.

“This joint…it’s nice and all, probably too good for the likes of me, but I’m itchin’ to move on to greener pastures. Once my contract’s over, I’m outta here.”

You’re unsure of what to say in return, wondering at the reason she felt it necessary to tell you, someone she just met, such a thing.

What’s so wrong with this place, you wonder. It’s posh, far fancier than what you’re used to, attracting guests of a certain lifestyle, but you’ve never felt derided or looked down on. But perhaps that’s because you haven’t spent any time out on the floor to truly gauge what the usual clientele is like. After all, etiquette dictates that the guests and entertainment don’t mix.

“You know how they say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover?” she continues. “Yeah, that applies tenfold here. It’s gilded, alright, filled with golden trinkets and golden fellas…but I sure as hell won’t miss wondering at what really goes on behind the veil. Whatever it is, it’s no business any halfway decent person should be getting mixed in with.”

You’re truly confused now, more than a little unsettled by her cryptic speech, but your mouth isn’t cooperating with your brain.

“Anyways.” She’s back to normal, eyes flickering over the secondhand red sweetheart dress that falls just below your knee. You try not to shift under her scrutiny. It was the best you could do with your situation, after all. “You’re due on stage in about five minutes and I’ve got a martini out there calling my name.”

She saunters away before you can say another word. Then, turning over her shoulder like she’s just remembered something, she stops. Another puff of smoke escapes her lips. “And quit it with the ‘Miss Romanova’ baloney. If we’re to continue sharing the same stage for a little while yet, you’d better get used to calling me by my God-given name, hadn’t you?”

When she’s gone, you’re nearly dancing on the balls of your feet, so alight with nerves are you at the thought of going out on that stage. But even amid those butterflies, a more slow-cooked, intense feeling carves its way into the pit of your stomach. Something more dreadful.

What did Natalia mean when she told you about how the place is gilded, and why did she tell you? What exactly went on there?

The manager, Bruce, is a decent man, you figure. He’s got two little girls and has shown himself to be rather reserved and non-confrontational. He’s never treated you unfairly; if anything, he’s afforded you an opportunity you never could’ve gotten otherwise, though it took a lot of convincing from your end. If you kept singing on certain nights and showed you had what it takes to be a regular performer in a venue of that caliber, he’d eventually start paying you and you’d be able to support your siblings, maybe even go back to school if the pay was good enough.

After some prodding from the bassist when the emcee announces you from the stage, you eventually get your feet to work and walk out on stage to polite applause. The room is dim, a bit hazy with smoke, but you register almost none of it with the way the blood’s pounding in your ears. You can’t remember whether or not you greet the audience, but soon it doesn’t matter because the piano and upright bass are starting off the smooth jazz standard and you’re gripping the microphone stand.

By not allowing yourself to focus on the faces seated at the tables, some of whom you can make out now that your eyes have adjusted, you’re able to get lost in the music. After managing not to croak on the very first note, you let that tiny encouragement bolster your confidence and before you know it, you’re crooning to the anonymous faces and couples who’ve taken to the floor to sway to the gentle, sentimental tune. Somewhere in the song, you spy Bruce out on the floor. He’s off to the side, chatting with some guests, and when he sees you notice him, he gives a small encouraging nod.

The din of chatter and clinking glass at the bar in the back is of less importance, more subdued as you reach the height of the song. You finish the emotional peak to applause that mingles with the music, and you don’t realize your eyes are closed until you open them.

And lock them right with his.

He’s standing across the floor at the bar, leaning against it like he owns it, drink in one hand and the other in his pocket. He’s got light hair parted neatly to the side, and even over his black suit and tie, you can tell he’s well-built. In an instant, you’re already sure he’s the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You can’t see what color his eyes are, but you can see clear as day how his gaze locks with yours, trapping you in place. For all outward appearances, he looks to be an urbane, proper gentleman, but the look he gives you is dark and dangerous, as though whatever’s going through his mind isn’t something to be expressed in polite company.

His lips part and the corner of his mouth tilts up ever so subtly, but it almost seems like a promise. It’s so sensual, so erotic, like he’d know just what to do to you if he ever got you alone and is thinking of all the ways he can do just that. And even from across the room, it sends butterflies of a different nature to erupt all around your belly.

You don’t miss a single beat since you know the song by heart, but in those long seconds your staring match is at a stalemate, you swear you’re transported somewhere else, somewhere beyond time, outside of laws and customs laid down by society.

You manage to draw your gaze away first but still, you can feel his eyes burn through you, demanding your attention as you finish the song. When it’s over, you hardly realize it, coming to only when the cheers shatter the fragile glass fogging up your mind.

Amid the applause, you manage to get out, “Thank you all so much. You’re too kind.”

And so it goes.

The set continues and you perform a range of songs, from gentler ones to those that invite lively dance. All the while, the man with the wicked stare is lodged in the back of your mind. You do your best not to look at him again, which is made easier by the fact that people are up and moving to the more upbeat songs, shrouding the mysterious stranger from view.

After finishing your setlist, your time on stage comes to an end and you thank the crowd profusely. “You’ve all been very kind to me tonight; thank you ever so much. I’m delighted we’ve been able to share such a magical evening together.”

You leave the stage to exuberant cheers and go down the hallway to your private dressing room on loan for the night, much more than the glorified storage room you normally get. As you undo the pins in your hair, you try not to think about the handsome stranger who looked at you like no man has ever done, burned you with his intense gaze, made you feel things you were, frankly, unaccustomed to.

You note how you were unable to catch another glimpse of him as you walked off, even with a final, discreet glance at the bar. He was nowhere to be found.

With an odd, irrational sadness taking over your heart, you figure it’s the first and last time you shall ever see him.

You take yourself in in the vanity mirror. Your hair is still styled in fashionable rolls but they’re loose now, and your red lipstick is still firmly in place. There’s that flush to your cheeks you usually get after performing, but all in all, you’re nothing to write home about. Natalia is much more the kind of woman a man like that would be caught appreciating.

So why did he look at _you_ like that?

Unwilling to resume your self-examination lest your insecurities get the best of you, you look away from your reflection and seek something to wipe off your lipstick with.

Then three succinct raps sound at the door.

The knock is purposeful, not at all timid. Thinking it might be Bruce, or somehow even Natalia, you cross the room to open the door and are completely caught off guard when you find a burly man in a black suit and tie on the other side, standing tall and straight with one hand clasped around his wrist in a casual but assertive demeanor.

“Er, may I help you, sir?”

His voice is gruff. “Your presence has been requested, miss.”

“What?”

“I ask that you come with me.”

“I’m sorry, are you a new hire? Is it Bruce? Does he need to see me about something?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” is all he says.

“Not at liberty to—who exactly are you, kind sir?” you ask, though the title you give him comes out sarcastic. “Who is asking to see me? And why can’t you tell me? If it’s Bruce, you can just say so and if it’s a patron, I’m afraid you’ll have to inform them it’s quite inappropriate to _summon_ me like I’m some—some—”

“He ain’t a patron, miss.”

“Oh, so it’s a he, is it? Well, if he wants to meet me so badly, you can simply tell him to wait like a proper gentleman until my time here is up and I’m ready to leave. In any case, I’m not quite finished here and if the matter is nothing urgent, you’ll kindly allow me to return to my task. Goodnight, sir.” You move to shut the door but it’s easily stopped by a large rough hand.

“He doesn’t take no for an answer.”

You scoff. “You can tell this friend of yours that he can stick his head where the sun don’t shine. Now, please—” You push at the door, but it hardly budges. “I insist that you leave me be before I call for security.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do nothin’, miss.”

“And why not?”

“I’ve been tasked with bringing you to him by any means necessary and I always keep my word.”

Your blood is near boiling now. The red flags going off in your head at this whole exchange are overshadowed by the dim haze of your outrage, and your foolhardiness makes an appearance long enough that you don’t quite grasp the implication of your next words. “Any means necessary, huh? You know what? Yeah, show me where this man is. I think I’d like to meet the man who seems to feel entitled to everything he wants, after all.”

The man simply arches a brow at what, to him, must be quite a picture. Half in amusement, half in exasperation, he shakes his head. “Follow me.”

 _Excuse me if my “outburst” is entirely too_ reasonable _given the damn situation._

You stew in indignation as you follow the man one step behind, staring daggers at the empty hallway before you. It’s cozy, dimly lit and covered in brocade wallpaper. You traverse the hall, turn several corners until you realize you’ve never been this way. You didn’t even know the club was this extensive.

_I’m gonna give this buster a real solid piece of my mind, that little—_

The man reaches up to pull on a wall sconce, which sends the statue of a tiger at the end of the hall turning. You jump just a little. As it spins, a portion of the wall rumbles apart, revealing a dark winding staircase leading down.

_What—where—_

You know it can’t be a good idea, but you’re still vexed enough to descend first at the large man’s beckoning. Eventually, the darkness lets up and you land in what seems to be some sort of foyer. Its decor is very much the same as it is upstairs but warmer, somehow, and you’re thankful to see a smattering of immaculately-dressed people lounging around as they socialize. Some of them spare you a glance, looking you up and down, but otherwise, you go largely unacknowledged.

_So it seems Natalia knew what she was talking about earlier…_

The man moves past you to the velvet burgundy curtains at the other end and pulls one back.

“Where are we?”

He doesn’t answer, simply waits for you to go through. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you sweep past the curtain, foolishly ignoring every warning bell sounding in your head. Beyond the curtain is another, more intimate corridor. You wait for the man to pass before you follow him, and you’re finally realizing you may have just willingly walked to your own execution when you hear it. It’s subtle at first, but the deeper you go, the clearer it gets.

It’s the unmistakable sound of debauchery. Of men and women alike, delighting in games and fashion and drinks and good company found in the opposite sex. With the sconces on the walls, you can see the scene better as you approach, dumbfounded. Standing on either side of slatted oak walls are two men, not quite as burly as the one who escorted you but who exude a certain menace all the same.

Your steps falter as you peek past the men through the opening between walls. Elegantly-dressed men and women adorn the smoky room as they throw their heads back in gaiety and gamble to their heart’s content. Though they look very much the same as their counterparts one floor up, there’s a distinct air of something rough and gritty to this crowd. Something less inhibited, more untamed.

At the far end, a live jazz band plays. By chance, your sight lands on a brown-haired man somewhere across the room who appears to be far less interested than the woman attempting to drape herself over him as he readies his throw of the dice across the table. You do a double-take when you think you spy something gleaming from underneath the sleeve of his suit jacket.

_Is that—a metal hand?_

The men standing guard eye you somewhat warily, but the one who escorted you speaks up. “Boss requested a meeting.”

The two men don’t react overtly, but the way one of them twists his mouth as if to hold back a smirk strikes you as very unpromising.

“This way.” Your escort continues down the hall and you follow, but not before you can make out the snippet of conversation behind you.

“Think boss’s finally found his lady?”

“I ain’t psychic, Barton. But I’ll tell ya somethin’, did ya see the look on her face? Girl has no idea what she’s in for.”

Your heart stutters dangerously. What have you gotten yourself into? Surely, it’s not too late to turn back. But before you know it, you’re standing in front of a large mahogany door, its looming presence almost a taunt. Standing guard beside it is yet another man. How important—or paranoid—does one man have to be to have so much security?

Your escort knocks on the door.

“Come in.” You’re just able to make out the cool, calm, and decidedly authoritative voice coming from the other side.

Before you even have time to gulp, the weighty door opens and your feet are bringing you into a warmly lit room with plush leather armchairs and oriental rugs and a mahogany desk along the far wall. The office reeks of old-world class, whose occupation no doubt calls for a man of a certain sophistication. And your breath catches in your throat.

Because that man is the very same one who watched you sing just one floor above.

Sat behind the desk, he’s leaned back in his chair in a deceptively casual pose. He’s still in that black suit and tie, but this time a black fedora covers his neatly combed hair. He’s got a hand to his lips, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. Without any excessive posturing on his part, you already know he commands the room, and likely much outside of it, judging from all the people who seem to work for him.

And he’s focused right on you.

You’re not completely sure you’re still breathing, but then he’s speaking and you hear his voice clearly for the first time.

“Thank you, Dugan.”

His voice is rich, entirely too rich, and masculine, warm and smooth like honey. From those three words, and his gaze, you see the confident charm in him, but you also sense the predator somewhere in there, carefully waiting to be unleashed at the opportune moment.

The other man—Dugan, apparently—dips his head. “Boss.” And without a further glance in your direction, he steps out and is just about to close the door.

“Just a second there, Dugan. Sammy’ll head out with you. We were just finishing up here.” The man’s Brooklyn accent becomes clearer as he motions vaguely to the other man by the desk, the one you just barely registered in your shock was also present.

The one called Sammy, also sharply dressed in a suit and fedora, looks to his boss before sliding his eyes over to you. “Sure thing, boss.” He crosses the room and, just as he passes you, tips his hat. “Milady.”

“Wilson.” The man everyone calls “boss” fixes his employee—friend?—with a stern look and Sammy backs off.

“What? I’m bein’ friendly.”

“Take a hike and go be friendly elsewhere.”

“I get it, I get it.” Sammy returns his attention to you. “You were wonderful out there tonight. Mr. Straight-Faced over there couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Get outta here before I bash your head in, Wilson.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Sammy leans into you and mock-whispers, “He tends to make good on his promises.” Then he continues ahead to the door where Dugan waits and the door is securely shut—and with it, any chance of escape.

It’s just you and him now.

You can hardly hear your thoughts over the pounding in your ribcage. After a quick glance back at the door, you turn to find the man rising from his seat in an almost lackadaisical manner. He goes to the bar and pours himself a drink.

“Care for a drink?”

Your palms are clammy and you have to resist the urge to wring your hands together. With no other option, you resort to a show of bravado. “I presume you’re the one who requested to see me?”

“What gave it away?”

Your temper flares underneath the layer of apprehension. “I don’t appreciate being summoned like some sort of dog. I demand you tell me who you are so the proper authorities can deal with you and I can get back to my evening.”

“Ain’t no proper authorities around here, darling.”

At his cavalier attitude, you’re truly perplexed now. “Who _are_ you?”

He chuckles and you have to pretend not to notice the way it triggers something warm below your belly. It’s just your body’s reflex, you tell yourself. “They told me you were an innocent, but they didn’t say just how charming it would be.”

“Who?” He’s _asked_ about you?

There’s the clink of the liquor bottle as he sets it down on the silver tray. He leans a hip against the bar, one hand in his pocket and one polished shoe crossed in front of the other. He takes a sip, then makes no move to hide the way he looks you up and down, eyes tracing over your figure with deep appreciation. He nods at you. “Tell me, how much do you know about the real goings on of this town?”

“What—why are you asking me that? Who are you? Does Bruce know about you?” And how there apparently seems to be some sort of underground club beneath his own?

“Bruce is fully aware of what goes on here, I assure you. Now answer my question, sweetheart.”

“I—no, I’m not going to dignify your question with a response. I won’t dignify anything with a response. What I am going to do is leave this instant if you’re not going to be forthright as to tell me who the hell you are and what you could’ve possibly asked to see me for.” Then you’d hound Bruce down, have a good chat with him and find out exactly what kind of business he thought he was running.

“You got a mouth on you, sweetheart. I like that.”

“No, what I’ve got is some scrap of dignity. And I’m not your sweetheart. Goodnight.” Your tone is firm as you head for the door.

“You want forthright, huh?”

Grudgingly, you slow in your tracks.

“Ease up those shoulders, sweetheart. I don’t like my women antsy.”

You whip around to find him licking his lips and setting down his drink like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Your _women_? Let me tell you right now, you bastard, I am no one’s _woman_ unless I say so, and I sure as hell ain’t saying anything here.”

In your haze, you dimly register him stroll over to you. It isn’t until he’s right in front of you that your brain stops working. Life, you decide then and there, is the most unfair thing there is in all the universe.

Because the man before you is heartbreakingly beautiful.

He’s imposing without having to puff out his chest, as though already assured of his dominance and harboring no need to prove it. His shoulders are broad and the rest of his body appears to be similarly built. Standing not one foot in front of you, it’s as though he’s sucked all the air out of the room—or at the very least, the air in your lungs. From afar, he was alluring enough. This up close, he’s something else. His entire being screams power. Dangerous power. And you have no doubt he is indeed a man used to getting what he wants.

You’re in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

“I’m leaving now,” you manage.

“You sure you wanna do that?” he purrs, reaching out to brush the back of his finger along your cheek.

“You told me were you going to be forthright.”

He chuckles. “I did, didn’t I?”

“So?” You wait, telling yourself it’s more out of pure curiosity than anything, and attempt to control your labored breathing.

His eyes—which you can finally tell are blue, beautiful cornflower blue and ringed with thick lashes—scorch you. “You saw that little soirée out there? This entire floor? I run it. And everything above it.”

“Above it? You mean to tell me you run this entire place? The lounge upstairs, all of it?”

He shrugs. “And a good portion of the city.”

“That’s impossible.” You know Bruce is the manager, doesn’t actually own the place…but upon further thought, you realize you were never explicitly told who did. “You can’t really own all this.”

“I assure you, I very much can. Bruce is a nice man, ain’t he? Hardworking, cares about his family. A good associate. Just the kind of face people prefer to see at these things.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. “No—you—that would mean—” He simply watches as you stumble over your words, looking in no rush to go anywhere. One more time, you try, “Who are you?”

At this, he smiles, and it’s slow and seductive. “Babydoll,” he says before chuckling softly, “I’m Steve Rogers.”

The walls come crashing down. _The_ Steve Rogers? Steven Grant Rogers, also known as “The Captain,” notoriously elusive mob boss? One of the most powerful men in New York City?

You shake your head, blindly step back. “No. No, you’re—this can’t—”

Natalia was right, you realize with horror. What goes on underneath this club, in those types of heinous organizations is nothing you have any business, or desire, getting into. It almost makes you sick, the thought of who-knows-what taking place right below your feet every time you’re here.

You’re done, you think. You’ll tell Bruce you have no interest in singing anymore and you’ll cut all ties with this place, assuming Rogers doesn’t have you whacked first, that is.

You turn for the door but are once again stopped by that rich, smooth voice. “Haven’t told you what I called you down here for, sweetheart.”

All those names he gives you, those terms of endearment, like he has any right to, like he has some sort of intimate relationship with you—it makes you sick to your stomach. You find yourself stopping regardless, perhaps out of morbid curiosity. Reluctantly, you turn.

Smoothly, he makes his way over to you and tilts your chin up so only he commands your attention. “I want you as my wife.”

And if the air wasn’t already sucked out of your lungs, it certainly is now.

“Your— _what_?” you nearly choke out, moving to escape his touch but his fingers tighten around your chin. “Let go of me.”

“You wanted me to be forthright. I’m telling you I want you for my own. Wives are highly esteemed in my world, you know,” he tells you, as though you don’t currently have a grip on his outstretched arm. “They, and any children who follow, always come first. No one’s to mess with them. And if they do, they end up wishing they’d never been born.”

“I don’t care—” You attempt to wrench out of his grip.

“If you were to become mine, you’d be untouchable. You’d want for nothing.”

“I don’t want anything to do with your world.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “I understand this is a lot to take in. But make no mistake: once I want something, I don’t stop till I get it.”

“Why me? There are millions of women in this city. Christ, this is the first time I’ve even seen you; I don’t even know you—”

“That’ll be easily remedied once we spend time together.”

“And if I’m not up to snuff?” God, why are you even humoring the man?

The breath that emits from his soft laugh hits your cheek. “I got a knack for these kinds of things, sweetheart. I doubt there’s any way you could disappoint me.”

“You’re insane, you—I’ve got people to look after, I—” You stop abruptly, cursing yourself for letting it slip that you have loved ones he might come after should he feel offended enough.

“They’d be taken care of. You’d never have to worry about money again.”

“No, just— _no_.” You’re still recovering from shock at the entire proposition.

He slowly caresses your face with his singular gaze, lingering especially long at your red lips. “You were a vision out there on that stage tonight. I don’t hang around here all that often, you understand. Quite a few places to go, affairs to tend to. But when Bruce mentioned somethin’ about Natalia having to sit out for the evening, well—I just had to see her replacement for myself. And who should walk out but you? And that voice…”

He runs his thumb over your bottom lip. “It never used to be that clear in my head, imagining who the woman to walk beside me in life would be. But when I saw you—I knew. There’s a whole lotta bad people in this world, doll. Far worse than me. People a dame like you might find herself in need of protecting from.”

You nearly laugh in his face. Is he honestly suggesting that being entrenched in his cut-throat world is somehow safer than living life as a normal civilian? The only thing you need protection from, it seems, is him.

“You and any children you give me would live in comfort for the rest of your days. Everything that’s mine would be yours, and that includes my wholehearted devotion. And I’ll let you know now: I’m a very devoted man.”

You struggle to breathe. This can’t be happening. “Well, you can take your offer and shove it up your ass. I’m not a prize to be handed out, nor am I some kind of broodmare for your sick pleasure.”

His brow raises in a flash of surprise. “It’s not an offer.”

“What, is it a threat?”

Coolly, he answers, “It’s a promise.”

You’re ashamed to feel something tingling deep along your insides and you can’t fully place whether or not it’s unwanted. “Look, I won’t tell anyone anything about this if you just let me go. I swear.”

He now has his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. When he speaks, it’s more of a murmur. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. To hurt you is the last thing I’d ever do.”

“Please.” _Please stop talking, please stop looking at me like that, please let me go, please please please—_

His hand eases up from your cheek, only to delicately tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. The act somehow feels more intimate than if he were to put his lips on yours. “Very well.” He drops his hand entirely.

_What?_

“You can go.”

You’re rooted to the floor.

He moves in the direction of his desk. “Sammy’ll be out there somewhere; he’s my underboss. He can take you back upstairs. Or you can ask for Bucky and he’ll be just as good. You don’t need to worry about ’em; I trust ’em with my life, and everyone here knows if you’ve been with me, they don’t touch you.”

Still a little unbelieving that he’d let you go that easily, you seize the opportunity and get your feet working toward the door.

Then he says your name in that sensual voice of his and it freezes you in your tracks. It’s no surprise he knows your name, but to hear it from his lips for the very first time…

You turn your head, and your stomach flips. He’s back behind the desk, draped casually across the leather chair. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

From across the room, his eyes are a little less piercing, but in his voice, the promise is loud and clear. With no intention of seeking out Sammy or this Bucky person, you sweep past the guard, eager to return upstairs, to familiarity, and you’re left with a hammering heart, a queasy stomach—and eerie certainty of one thing.

This is far from the last time you’ll find yourself alone in a room with Steve Rogers.


	3. Soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Forwardslashtab, who requested: "Maybe a soulmate au with Steve, but he and the female reader meet on a website that is similar to dating sites, but instead people send in pictures of there soul marks and the service matches people to the closest approximation. I imagine it would be a slow burn, what with Steve not wanting the reader know he's Captain America."
> 
> First off, let me start by offering a **thousand** apologies for taking so damn long with this. I don't even know if you still remember/want this. 😅 My excuse: life has been very…life-ish. But this and the other prompts never left my mind! I will get them done! That said, I sincerely hope you enjoy this. It is a slow burn indeed because I am incapable of getting to the point. This turned out so much longer than I would've guessed, like idek (just over 9k words). a;dlgkja SORRY FOR THE WAIT and hope you like it!!

**Steve.**

You stared at the name till your vision grew blurry.

Steve. You had a soulmate, and his name was Steve.

You hesitated, then tried his name on your lips, and it suddenly became realer than it ever had before. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Steve,” you whispered, and when your voice floated away with the wind, a part of you hoped it would somehow find its way over to him.

Your soulmate was a Steve. And Steve’s profile was just as blank as yours, comprised of nothing but his name in bold at the top of the screen and a lone picture of his soul mark to match yours.

You hugged the phone to your chest with a shaky hand and exhaled. Up against the brick exterior of some building, you might as well have been invisible. Invisible and anonymous in a sea of millions. Blind to everything but the wild palpitations beneath your chest, you pulled your sleeve back and ran gentle fingers across the imprint you received when you’d turned eighteen.

On the inside of your left wrist was a mark in the shape of a star. It was an irregular, asymmetric shape, but its image was clear enough. When you saw the mark for the very first time after it had appeared overnight, you smiled, and it was an artless, breathless, genuine smile.

You liked stars, and you took its appearance as a good omen. Your soulmate, the one who would bear an identical mark when the two of you should meet, was out there at that exact moment, perhaps wondering who you were, where you were. Maybe your soulmate would be everything you dreamed and more.

But the years passed, and even accounting for the years after you turned eighteen that you hadn’t yet joined the soulmate app, you still hadn’t been matched. You ran the whole gamut of emotions, from sadness, to anger, to fear. You knew it could’ve been for a whole host of reasons—their age, location, or the very distinct possibility that your supposed soulmate simply didn’t want to know you. And that of all possibilities cut you the deepest.

All around you, you watched as people found their soulmates, walked hand in hand with them down the street, secure in their possession of their destined life partner. But you…maybe you really were defective. An anomaly. Still, you found yourself holding onto the app, retaining your profile, retaining that submitted photo of your soul mark in the tiny hopes that you might be matched.

The whole ordeal had almost been out of your mind—almost—until that fated moment that saw you sorting books in the nonfiction aisle of the small bookstore you worked at. Your phone had buzzed in your pocket and after a free moment, you absently took it out. And when you saw the notification—so foreign, so unexpected and somehow misplaced in the mundane world of book sorting, of cold, hard _reality_ —you nearly passed out.

You knew you had to take your lunch then and hightailed it out of there, coursing blindly down the busy city street until you landed some blocks away, breath stolen from your lungs, and opened up the app to see. To see the name of the person the universe had deemed to be the one for you.

Afterward, still half-asleep to the world around you, you continued down the street, chanting the single word in your head over and over.

Steve. **Steve**. _Steve_.

You’d never once considered the name to be the one your soulmate bore—how could you with all the names out there—but in mere seconds, it became the single name that took up your every thought.

In what seemed like a matter of minutes, you ended up at a corner table in your usual little cafe, fiddling with your fingers before giving in to the urge to rub a soothing thumb over your soul mark.

Right in your view was the television, and on it, cell phone footage played of an altercation between some stocky guy and Captain America. The fight took to the streets, and the only reason it didn’t end in five seconds was because of some sort of special power on the other man’s part, judging from the strange orange aura he radiated.

“Feelin’ antsy today, aren’t you, dear? Haven’t stopped moving since you came in.”

You pried your gaze away from the television to the woman standing over your table. Her wavy gray hair was twisted up in a bun and the corners of her eyes crinkled as a smile tugged at her lips.

You managed a nervous chuckle. “Hey, Linda. Sorry, just…got a lotta stuff on my mind.”

She placed a cup of coffee onto the table. “Oh, I know how it gets. How’re things over at the shop?”

“They’re going. But sometimes…well, sometimes everything just seems to blur together.” You shrugged in a halfhearted effort to appear casual, hoping to move on from the subject.

Linda seemed to note it but didn’t push. She’d always been eerily perceptive. “Well, I’ll just ply you with all the coffee you want and maybe that’ll take your mind off some things.” She pointed to the coffee. “That one’s on me. Now you just sit tight; your usual will be out soon.”

“Thanks, Linda.”

She made to leave, but not before she caught the way your eyes kept floating back to the television. She turned to look. “Oh, yes.” There was something like admiration in her voice. “Captain America. Quite the man. Reminds me a lot of Patrick.”

You watched her profile as she stared at the screen with what you could only describe as quiet longing, not for the man on the screen but for what he represented. She’d always struck you as lonely after losing her husband and soulmate, even though she’d tried to give off the impression that everything was fine.

Unable but to feel as though you were intruding on a private moment, you returned your attention to the screen just as the image cut back to the news anchor.

Wiping her hands on her black apron, Linda turned to you. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Again, she made to leave but then stopped, a thoughtfulness growing on her expression. “You know, sometimes I host a small dinner every now and then at my apartment. It’s nothing big, just me and one other person, usually, but I really enjoy his company. What do you say you come over sometime? He’s a very nice man; I think you’d really like him. Terribly handsome too.”

You hesitated, unsure of how to turn her down. She’d made attempts to set you up before and you always declined her offer, but the newfound knowledge that you had a soulmate possibly waiting for you out there had every inch of your skin itching, as if the very notion of even attempting to look elsewhere would be nothing short of a betrayal.

“That’s really kind of you, but…well, I don’t know if I’m ready for anything right now.” You didn’t know what else to say. You’d already decided to keep the revelation of your soulmate’s identity to yourself for the time being.

Linda nodded. “Ok, dear, it’s all up to you. Just know the offer’s always on the table. Even if you’re not looking for anything romantic, you can still come over. I’m sure the two of you’d make great friends, and it never hurts to have one more, does it?”

You gave her a weak smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

With a parting nod, she walked away. You returned your attention to the television where the report of the public debacle still played and were unable to hold back the somewhat dazed laugh that spilled from your mouth.

It was impossible to take your eyes off of Steve Rogers. Shaking your head, you watched as he took down the other man. For a fleeting moment, you wondered who on earth might’ve been the soulmate of someone like him—Steve Rogers, Captain freaking America, the handsome, noble soldier from another time.

What a life _that_ would be.

You returned to the bookstore still in a daze and spent the rest of the day feeling giddy and terrified. Had he— _Steve_ —already checked his match, learned your name? What if he hadn’t, or never planned to? Maybe it was only curiosity of the highest nature that led him to submit the picture of his soul mark. Maybe all he wanted to know was whether or not he really had a soulmate. But, you wondered, would he be content with having his soulmate out there while he decided to forge his own path and find someone else, if anyone at all? Or would the thought weigh heavy on his mind, knowing you existed but not being willing to find out who you were?

It happened sometimes that matched pairs didn’t end up together. Maybe one person shirked the other in a hardened effort to exercise their free will, or maybe they both decided the universe had just gotten it wrong and they weren’t fit for each other. Whatever the reason, it was entirely possible for soulmates not to be together.

But those were rare. You’d heard plenty of stories about the indescribable feeling upon seeing your soulmate in person, the unparalleled experience of locking eyes for the first time—that magnetic pull, that rush of overwhelming emotion as if two halves had finally become whole.

It was a highly romanticized notion, but maybe you only thought so because you’d never experienced it for yourself.

And you still weren’t sure you were going to, because he never messaged you. And you never messaged him. Weeks went by with total silence on both ends and all throughout, you were plagued with the fear that he simply wasn’t interested. Whether he checked his match or not, it seemed he was willing to forgo any prospect concerning the two of you. Was willing to discard you without even knowing you. And just the sheer idea of it was infinitely more devastating to you than a sinking heart.

Of course, there was also the possibility that he was just as terrified as you. Maybe to him, your silence appeared as much of an indicator of your disinterest as his did to you. Maybe his mind raced with the very same thoughts and doubts as yours.

And so, weeks later you found yourself in your tiny, cramped apartment while your roommates were out, staring at your phone while already dressed in your pajamas. You so badly wanted to message him. You thought you’d finally gathered the courage to do it, but come early evening, you found you just couldn’t.

Restless, you rose swiftly from the couch to head to the kitchen.

Then your phone chimed, and it was a different sound from your usual notifications.

In one hurried stride, you snatched your phone off of the table.

It was him. It was Steve.

He’d messaged you, just as you were trying to regain the courage to do the same to him. You were familiar with the concept of synchronicity, but never before had you been so awed by it.

_Hi there. I’m Steve, although I’m guessing you already gathered that._

Your heart nearly pounded out of your chest. You might’ve broken out into a sweat.

For a long while, you simply stood there. Then you sat down without any awareness on your part. And you just sat.

Finally, with shaking hands, you typed your response. And after much editing and backspacing, you managed to get it out.

_You guessed right. Hi there Steve. I’m guessing you know my name too._

Your lip was turning raw from all the chewing it was having done to it.

_I do, and it’s a really pretty name. It’s nice to finally “meet” you._ Then he added, _Oh man that first part sounded like such a line didn’t it?_

You laughed.

_Tbh I’m not really one for lines but I might be willing to make an exception in this case. It’s really nice to finally kinda meet you too. It’s pretty funny, I was just about to message you before yours popped up._

_They do say great minds think alike._

You were grinning from ear to ear. Unthinking, you sent your reply.

_Soo we’re soulmates, huh?_

No! Why did you say such a thing? Talk about jumping the gun. You’d only typed out the first thing you thought of, had already felt inexplicably comfortable with him, at least in digital format. Then he replied.

_I do hear that’s generally how it works. So hello, soulmate. It’s nice to meet you._

_Hi again, soulmate. Nice to meet you too._

It was surreal. You were talking to your soulmate, and you were joking with each other.

Your silly grin remained in place for the rest of the night.

Over the next few weeks, you and Steve messaged each other at all hours of the day. You communicated in the late mornings sometimes or in the afternoons, depending on your schedule, but also at night. You asked about him and he asked about you. You teased each other and shared secrets and whenever he wished you goodnight, your wish was that he could be there with you.

Everyday you grew more enamored with him, though he was, in essence, still a stranger. In between conversations, in moments both idle and busy alike, you found yourself in a perpetual state of dreaming. And they were always daydreams of him. What he looked like, what he sounded like. He could’ve been anyone. But he was someone, and he was out there, and he was _yours_.

Sometimes it was silent on his end for a good while. One week, two weeks. Sometimes more. He’d told you he was in consulting and that his work often required a lot of traveling and time away from his phone, and you were none the wiser for it. During those times, you missed him far more than you cared to admit, and for all the comfort you felt with him, you were still unsure how to broach the topic you’d been dancing around.

Would you and he ever meet in person?

It was a perfectly logical question and the natural next step. You were just wondering why he hadn’t brought it up either. So a couple of months after your initial conversation, you resolved to take the matter into your own hands.

It helped that he messaged you first. When your phone sounded with a notification, you practically tossed the laptop off of your lap and grabbed the phone from the nightstand.

_Hey I’m back, just got back tonight. I know I’ve been MIA for a while. Sorry I didn’t get to tell you ahead of time. Hope you didn’t forget about me._

_Hey! Noo don’t worry, I know you said your job can be sorta last minute._

You bit your lip, then added:

_I could never forget you._

_You’ve got to stop being so understanding. It’s throwing me off balance._

You imagined he would’ve smiled as he typed that. At the very thought, you smiled.

_I’ve never really been one for balance anyway. Too clumsy. :P So how are you?_

_I’m ok, just a little tired maybe. I haven’t really gotten a chance to relax lately. How are you though?_

_Same ol, same ol. Ya know if you’re tired, don’t let me keep you up. Get some rest, really._

_I would, but then it’d mean I wouldn’t get to talk to you. Besides, getting to talk to you is relaxation enough. In fact, it’s pretty much the highlight of my day._

Your heart gave way to a heavy flutter.

 _Flatterer_ , you responded.

 _Never said I wasn’t. :)_ Then, _It’s true though._

_It might be true for me too._

_Might?_

_If ‘might’ equals ‘is.’_

Oh, god. You were terrible at this flirting thing. And he thought so too, if the lengthy time before his next reply was any indication.

Then his message appeared, and all you saw was a string of digits.

A phone number.

_My number. So we might finally be able to talk for real sometime._

He gave you his number. He wanted to talk. You didn’t even do much of that on the phone these days, but the prospect of doing so with him had you fraught with nerves. After months of communicating virtually, you’d hear his voice for the first time. He’d hear yours.

Oh, god. What if he didn’t like your voice? What if it turned him off? What if you didn’t like his? Or would you like the other’s automatically on account of being soulmates? Was that a thing?

You replied with your own number.

 _So we’re even_ , you told him.

_Good call._

_Literally, I hope._

_Ha...ha._

You looked at the time. It was late and you were in no way prepared to actually talk to him for the first time.

 _Will you be free sometime tomorrow?_ you asked. _It’s getting pretty late and the smart part of me is telling me I should go to bed. Bleh._

_You should probably listen to that smart part of you then. And I should be free in the afternoon, but unfortunately there’s no knowing what might crop up in my schedule. But I’d really like to call you. Will you be available then?_

_Yeah that should work just fine for me!_

_Great, I’ll call you then._

_Looking forward to it._

Smiley face? No smiley face? Would it be weird if you added it afterward?

_Me too. But I guess I have to let you go now._

_Just for another night._

_One night too many._

Though he couldn’t see, you gave him a tender smile.

_Night, Steve. :)_

_Sweet dreams._

With the light turned off, you rolled onto your side and tucked your hands under the pillow. Your dreamy sigh sounded foreign even to your own ears.

You fell asleep, a soft smile on your lips.

After another day of work, you entered your apartment with a spring in your step. Steve hadn’t called yet, and you didn’t want to call if he happened to be in the middle of something important.

You didn’t have to wait long.

As soon as you flopped onto your bed, the phone rang. You sat up and looked at the caller ID.

Steve.

This was it.

After taking a moment or twenty to gather yourself, you answered. “Hello?”

It was silent for roughly three seconds.

And then—your name. In the form of a question, coming from a voice that at once felt both familiar and new. It was smooth and deep, the tone apprehensive. If voices could be called handsome…

It took you a moment to remember to reply. “Yes—sorry. Yeah. Steve…hi.” Your smile was nervous and hopeful.

His breath left him in a rush before it turned into a disbelieving sound of amusement. “I can’t believe I’m hearing your voice for the first time.”

“Me neither.” Only then did you realize you were pacing the length of your room, fidgeting with your hair, your clothes, everything.

“It’s nice,” he said. “You sound…”

You waited for him to finish his sentence but it never came. Your heart rate was through the roof.

“To tell you the truth, I’m kinda kicking myself right now for waiting so long to give you my number,” he said. “We could’ve been talking all this time.”

“Well, I guess sometimes there’s no harm in taking things slow,” you managed to get out.

He chuckled. “Taking things slow. Yeah…”

The slight unease in his voice as he trailed off was curious. You hesitated. “You know, this is gonna sound really stupid, but…you kinda sound familiar. Is that weird? You think it’s just some weird…soulmate thing? Or I dunno, maybe I’m just being stupid.” Your laugh was weak.

In theory, of course, you were soulmates. You both knew that. But to address it so plainly outside of text would take some getting used to.

There was a long beat of silence on his end. “Yeah—I mean, no. No, you’re not crazy. Guess I just have one of those voices. You know, like some people say they have those generic faces?”

You wanted to laugh at the way he was trying to sell it so hard. “Well, I haven’t seen your face yet, but your voice is…kinda far from being generic, I think. Like, very far.” You winced. So eloquent.

The warmth in his laugh put you at ease. “Thank you.”

“So…we’re talking—we-we’re actually talking.” You were still up and moving and the words were spilling from your mouth before you could filter them.

“You keep sayin’ that and I’m gonna start believing it less. This is…something else. I never thought it was in the cards for me.”

The reflective tone in his voice sent a pang through your chest. “Me too.”

“So…”

“So…”

You laughed together. “So, how was your day?” you asked.

“It was…frustrating, to put it mildly—or was I just now supposed to answer that with the obligatory ‘it was good’?”

You laughed. “You don’t have to keep it yourself—I mean, not if you don’t want to. If it was frustrating, it was frustrating. Sometimes you just gotta let it out, you know?”

“Again, you gotta stop being so understanding.”

“I think you’re making me out to be far more understanding than I actually am.”

“Guess I’ll just have to spend more time with you to find out how true that is.”

You paused. “You know, I just swear, you sound so familiar, have you—”

“Uh—you know, I’m betting it is a soulmate thing, after all. You might be right about that. Wouldn’t come as that much of a shock, right?”

There was still something niggling at the back of your mind. “I guess. So, does that mean I sound familiar to you?”

“In a way, yes.” When you said nothing, he continued, “So, I never got to ask. How was your day? You were working at the bookstore, right?”

“Yeah. It was uneventful. And I’m not just saying that; it really was. I got home literally right before you called, actually.” You settled onto your stomach on the bed.

“Yeah? Looks like I have good timing.”

“You really do, actually. What with the whole messaging me right as I was about to message you that first time…”

“Maybe it’s another one of those soulmate things.”

“I like to call it serendipity.”

“Well, we’ll call it that too.”

You bit your lip and plucked at the loose threads of your worn comforter. Before you could decide what to say, your stomach let out a long, cavernous growl.

“I think the folks in the space station could hear that from all the way up there.”

“Be quiet.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “Tell that to your stomach.”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Oh. Um…I dunno. The proper answer would probably be something like mashed potatoes or steak or something. But the real one…would probably be chili cheese fries.”

“Oh, _god_.”

“Healthy, right?”

“I love chili cheese fries.”

“I have this friend, actually, who makes the best chili cheese fries you’ve ever tasted. There’s absolutely no beating hers.”

You berated yourself for the budding jealousy you felt at the mention of another woman. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“What’s your favorite…” He trailed off. Your brow was twisted in confusion when he sighed. “And we’d just gotten to talking. I’m really sorry. I just got a message. It’s about work.”

“Oh.”

“They say it’s urgent.”

“Oh. Yeah, I—completely understand. Really. If they say it’s important…”

“I’m really sorry. I wish we could talk longer.”

“Steve, it’s ok. There’s always tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Right.”

“Or whenever, you know, both of us are free.”

“Can I call you tomorrow? Same time, maybe?”

 _You can call me anytime_. “Yeah.”

“Alright.”

“Alright. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“You could ne—”

“A joke, Steve. Look it up.” Your tone was teasing.

“Right, well, I gotta go.”

“You said that already.”

“Had to mention it again in case you forgot.” You were both stalling.

“It was really nice getting to talk to you, Steve,” you told him, shy once again. “To, you know, hear your voice.”

“The first of many, I hope.”

“I hope so too.”

“Alright, well…I’ll go now. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

“Bye—”

“—Bye.”

You shared another laugh. “Bye, Steve.”

Once again, you could hear the smile in his voice, and you so badly wished you could see it for yourself.

“Bye.”

  


* * *

  


“Head in the clouds again, I see.”

You looked up to find Linda standing over your table. “Oh. Hi, Linda. Sorry. I was just out of it, I dunno.”

“No need to apologize,” she said wryly. “Just came over to check up on you. Still the usual, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Her gaze fell to where you fiddled with the hem of your sleeve. In a vain attempt, you tugged it over your wrist, but you knew she’d already seen.

Her brows knitted together. “Hey now, didn’t you tell me a while ago that you joined that app? You know, for soulmates?”

You held in a sigh. If she was trying to set you up again…

“That thing’s real convenient, huh?” she continued. “Makes it a lot easier these days, finding your soulmate.”

You nodded.

She appeared to search for something in your expression. Then, as if finding her answer, she nodded. “You haven’t given any thought to coming over for dinner sometime, have you? I didn’t wanna push, but I figure there’s no harm in bringing it up again.”

With a sheepish look, you shrugged apologetically. “Oh, uh…sorry.”

She nodded again, this time more slowly as though something had just dawned on her. “Right. Well, ok, offer’s still there. I’m having another dinner Sunday evening and will probably make chili cheese fries, if you happen to be interested. I’ve had a real hankering for those lately.” She shrugged casually. “Be back later, hun.”

But you’d been rendered still as she moved away.

The second mention of chili cheese fries in as many days. What were the odds?

It was a trivial coincidence, but it still managed to poke at the back of your mind as you worked the register at the bookstore. You were only half-present, preoccupied with fleeting, inconsequential thoughts of chili cheese fries and doubly so with the anticipation of talking to Steve again.

The screaming from the street broke through your haze.

The sound of heavy, consistent thudding and multiple car alarms going off immediately followed. The customers inside the shop turned their heads curiously and you did likewise; some folks drew closer to the window to peer out toward the street.

Then the thudding grew louder. The source was fast approaching.

A shock of red suddenly appeared outside the storefront window to your right as it shot out across the street. It seemed to be some sort of laser beam, slicing clean through cars, parked and in motion alike. You barely registered the gasps inside the store as, without thinking, you rushed to the window and looked on with wide eyes.

With your limited vision, you were able to see a young man in a long black trench coat sprinting on top of the parked cars along the street. A deadly beam of red emitted from his forehead and he seemed neither interested in turning it off nor exacting in where it hit as it blasted indiscriminately at the objects ahead. He jumped from roof to roof, his disproportionately hefty prints leaving craters in the metal and setting off the alarms.

The man stomped right past the store, right into your view, and just as he was flying past your line of sight, a flat, circular object whooshed through the air and cut him in the back with a sickening crunch before immediately whirling back in the other direction.

The laser beam wreaking havoc from the man’s forehead went out in a split second as he toppled over onto the front windshield of a stationary car.

“That was Captain America!” a man inside the store yelled.

The murmurs escalated as you watched the man in the trench coat rise, hunched over in discomfort. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to get up just like that, not with the way the shield had hit him.

He turned with a menacing look on his face and in the next moment, the red beam was shooting out of his forehead once again, this time with purpose.

Beside you, people were clamoring at the window. “That’s Steve Rogers, he’s trying to hit Steve Rogers!” someone shouted.

You craned your neck and were just able to catch a glimpse of the uniformed legs of Steve Rogers, who was down the street, ducking behind his shield as the red beam made its futile attempt to penetrate the metal.

Somewhere in all the noise, you heard him yell, “Vision, go!”

On cue, the imposing figure of Vision floated into view, cape whipping gently behind him. There was a deceptive calm to his demeanor as he hovered high in the air. Captivated, you watched as he did nothing but stare down at the man with the red laser beam, eyes eerily threatening even from a distance.

The other man appeared to come to his senses as his gaze locked with Vision.

In the next second, he was running in the other direction, panicking in his rush to get away. As he turned, the beam from his forehead shot out at the building across the street, sending the brick crumbling to the ground. He ran and ran and Vision flew in pursuit, sending his own beam of blinding yellow energy through the air.

Around you, some people had taken to the streets, itching to get a better view of the conflict. Though you were aware of the danger, you told yourself the battle was moving farther away and stumbled out onto the sidewalk alongside a few others.

There was noise coming from all sides, from the battle up ahead, from the shouts of people, from the emergency sirens drawing closer.

You watched as the man in the trench coat tried to flee Vision. You watched as building exteriors were destroyed with ragged, uncaring blasts. You watched as the man turned to look over his shoulder at Vision.

And as a result, the beam from his forehead shot clear through the air, right into the building next to you.

There was barely any warning. With not even an ominous creak, the fire escapes for the apartments above were severed from the building and the closest one, only two stories up, dropped straight through the air.

Right toward you.

You looked up for only a second.

You thought you saw your life flash before your eyes.

There was no time.

You stumbled backward, but it was so _big_ —

Your eyes glazed over.

And then a heavy mass rammed you in the back and you were spinning and there was a deafening crash all around as you were plowed through the glass storefront of the bookshop at the very same moment a barrage of iron fire escapes hurtled to the ground, smashing into pavement and cars without care.

You were on your back.

Moments passed. You didn’t know how many. You lay there frozen, hardly knowing if you were still breathing.

Then the ringing in your ear gradually lessened and the sounds of the world came crashing back unfiltered. You registered the chest and stomach moving beneath you as if to take in air—and the solid arms wrapped tightly around your middle.

_Oh._

Chest heaving, you let your head loll to the side where it landed on tough material and took in the distinct attire of the person holding you.

_You gotta be kidding me. I just got saved by—_

“Steve Rogers?” you asked in a tired voice, still somewhat in a daze.

But he didn’t answer. Immediately, the chest beneath you stopped moving. His arms remained ensnared around you, but there was a noticeable tension to them, one that didn’t have to do with the fact that he’d just saved your life by sending you crashing through a window and taking the brunt force of it himself.

Were you wrong? Was it not him?

His arms slid from your middle. Slowly, cautiously, until his gloved hands were like two brands on your waist.

In a low voice, he asked, “Are you able to get up?”

And everything in you froze.

Because you knew that voice.

He must’ve sensed it as well. Carefully, he rewrapped one arm around you and slowly sat up, bringing you with him. You were still on the floor littered with shards of glass, and you were sitting on his lap.

Distantly, you registered the smattering of people who’d appeared at the shattered window to peek in with unrestrained interest.

“I’m on my way,” he said from right over your shoulder, thick arm sliding from your middle once again. His voice—his rich, warm voice, the voice you could finally place—was so close to your ear you nearly jumped.

“What?” you said automatically as you turned your head sideways, still not processing anything.

“I was…talking to the team. Are you hurt?” You still couldn’t see him.

You were sore, but you were ok. You managed to shake your head. “I don’t think so. Thank you… _thank you_.”

You did see his stoic nod. “You’re welcome.”

No more words were said between the two of you, but after helping you stand—all the while avoiding eye contact—he directed the onlookers to take you to the paramedics for safe measure. You shook your head as you were gently guided away, muttering words of disagreement, but he was already talking to someone else.

You resisted the others’ hands on you, insisting you were fine, and a couple of them let up. The person who was left kept a hand on your back as you were drawn farther and farther away from the commotion. Farther away from him.

He was pointing in some direction to a civilian, who nodded and hurried away. Then he stood there, unstrapping the shield from his back as he gazed at nothing.

Maybe he knew your eyes were on him, or maybe he looked just to look.

But at that exact moment, he turned his head—and met your eye for the first time.

And just like that, the world fell from beneath your feet.

  


* * *

  


You barely touched your food.

The cars and pedestrians passed by your window seat and you stared at the outside world without seeing anything.

About a month had passed since it all. Since Steve Rogers himself had tackled you through a window and saved your life. Since you knew with more certainty than you’d ever felt in your life that he was the one you’d exchanged messages with, had talked with, had fallen for without even meeting him.

That Steve was _the_ Steve. He was your soulmate.

It was all cemented when you locked eyes for the first time. You’d always heard it was the big magical moment, the moment where you knew with all your being that you’d just met your one and only.

You’d felt it. Without a doubt. It was like a swift punch to the gut, so visceral and all-consuming it took your breath away.

You’d felt it.

You just didn’t know if he had.

His gaze had blazed with heat even from a distance, had been a silhouette of something intense and unnamed with the way his helmet outlined his ocean-deep eyes. His gaze had burned through you, and he’d looked none too happy about it.

The paramedics had gotten to you by then and you were forced to turn your gaze away. And when you eventually looked back, he was gone.

And that was the last you heard from him.

You were too afraid to contact him. And when it became clear he wouldn’t contact you either, you had a good cry and told yourself to let it go.

Fate _would_ pick you as the butt of its joke.

Because in no world did you and Steve Rogers actually end up together.

A presence suddenly appeared in the seat across from you. “You should come over for dinner, dear.”

You blinked. “What?” You glanced around, wondering if she’d get in trouble for sitting with you.

“I’m on break,” said Linda. “You should come over for dinner. Maybe I’ll be able to whip you up something that you’ll be able to keep down, yeah?” She looked at your full plate.

You sighed and sat back in your chair. “I just…I’m just not here for it, Linda. Look, I appreciate that you keep inviting me over, but—”

“You’re sick of it and sick of me asking all the time. But trust me, dear. You’ll wanna come over this time.”

You frowned, weary of everything, of all things mysterious and cryptic and most likely tipped out of your favor. “Why?”

Folding her arms on the table, Linda leaned forward, her voice gentle. “Because I told you he reminds me of Patrick.”

You waited for her to say something else, to give a less riddled answer but she only looked at you with that sympathetic glint in her eye.

 _Screw it._ “Fine. Ok.”

Her expression lightened. She gave your hand a small pat. “I’ll have him pick you up. This Sunday, dear, at 6:30. Remember.”

“I’m working this Sunday.”

She smiled. “That’s ok.”

When Sunday came around, you spent the large part of your day at the bookstore. Its front window had been replaced and your boss still occasionally gave you a look, like it was your fault you’d been forced through the window, shattering it to pieces. But overall, everything had gone back to normal. Life went on.

It was nearing 5:30 p.m. In a matter of minutes, your shift would be over and you’d have to rush home to get ready for dinner at Linda’s.

You were rummaging behind the counter with your back to the door when the door opened. You turned, about to offer a greeting when you froze in your tracks.

Steve stood by the door, staring right back at you. He was in a white t-shirt, jeans and a lightweight navy jacket.

You tried to hate that you still felt it, that feeling of kismet when you locked eyes. You tried to hate that it wasn’t just a fluke that first time. But you couldn’t.

You swallowed. “How can I help you?”

Looking terribly timid, Steve approached the counter. He was right in front of you and it was the closest you’d ever been face to face.

You could hardly breathe just looking at him.

“I have this friend,” he began carefully. “And she told me about this girl she knows. Real nice girl, she said. Funny, smart…beautiful. She was convinced I’d fall for her with just one look.”

You thought you might’ve understood what drowning was as the pieces slowly fell into place. “Linda,” you murmured. “Chili cheese fries.”

_Captain America. Quite the man. Reminds me a lot of Patrick._

_Because I told you he reminds me of Patrick._

Steve let out a huff of amusement before continuing. “Everything she said, it was nice. All the boxes ticked, right? But they’re just words. You never know until you meet them.”

“Or talk to them,” you added softly.

He ducked his head. “Or see them.”

You watched, waited with bated breath as he considered his next words. Then his earnest gaze came back up to meet yours.

“And now I’m here to take her to dinner, if she’ll let me.”

You wished you hesitated. You wished there was a pause in which you debated whether or not it was a good idea. You wished you actually wished for these things. “She will.”

He smiled at you, and it was hopeful and perfect.

You glanced at the time. “Again with the good timing. My shift just ended.”

“Well, this time I may’ve had some help,” he said sheepishly. “Linda told me when you got off. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, but—well, the dinner’s at 6:30, right? I’d planned on heading back to my apartment to get ready…”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, thing is, I was sorta holding out hope that we might be able to hang out before then. Take a walk, talk. For real this time.” He looked you over briefly, in no way leeringly. “And you look…you look perfect.”

You doubted it, but the butterflies in your stomach were too strong for you to insist otherwise. “Just—I have to clock out real quick.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

You had no idea how it happened, but after clocking out, you left the shop side by side and eventually made it to the park, weaving through the walkways until you ended up walking along the pond.

It was silent for a good while.

“So, when did you realize?” you asked, fiddling with your fingers.

“That we’re soulmates?” He smiled ruefully at you from the side. It was surreal just to hear him say it, to have him walk beside you like you were companions of some kind and for him to give his sole attention to you. “When I heard you say my name that day in the store. After I, you know, tackled you through a window.”

“And saved my life. Seriously, thank you for that. I feel like I’ll never be able to say that enough times.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah. I think. Sometimes I still have flashbacks when I’m trying to sleep at night and I think about just how badly it could’ve ended, but…it didn’t.” He stayed quiet, like he was mulling over your words, so you spoke up again. “How were you sure it was me?”

He looked at you thoughtfully. “Your voice. I would’ve been able to pick it out anywhere. And it also helped that you were right in front of a bookstore when I got to you, and I knew you worked at one. The puzzle pieces just started coming together.” He paused. “You knew when you heard me speak too, didn’t you?”

You nodded, feeling completely naked under his intent stare. “I knew then. And then I knew for sure when you looked at me.”

He nodded, more to himself. “Me too.”

“But, uh…‘consulting,’ huh?”

He almost looked embarrassed. “I couldn’t think of anything else. And in a way, if you squint hard enough, I am in consulting…”

You chuckled. “Well, it got the job done. I believed you well enough.”

“For what it’s worth, I hated lying to you. I wanted to just tell you everything.”

“You could’ve.”

“Yeah? And how would you have reacted?”

You shrugged noncommittally, though you knew the answer. You wouldn’t have believed him. “I have to be honest, I’m kinda surprised you used your real name.”

“Well, I’m hardly the only Steve around here, aren’t I? Figured, what’re the chances of anyone even considering it might be me?”

“Hiding in plain sight.”

“Sometimes the simplest option is the best one.”

It was silent again.

“Why didn’t you look at me before?” you blurted out. “That day at the bookstore. Why were you trying to avoid my eye?”

He looked down at the paver walkway. “The life I’m living isn’t exactly a 9 to 5. I learned some time ago there are no guarantees in life, let alone in what I do. Sometimes it’s better to be alone.”

To spare yourself the heartbreak.

“Then why join the app at all?” you asked.

“It was…a friend’s idea. Someone on the team.”

“An Avenger?” You tried to picture it. One of Earth’s mightiest heroes, still subject to the whims of fate, still concerned with soulmates like everyone else.

He nodded. “I eventually joined, thinking nothing would come of it. No way would I actually have a soulmate, not in this day and age, not when I was born a hundred years ago.”

Unconsciously, you’d started rubbing the soul mark on your inner wrist. Steve took notice. He stopped walking and faced you.

“Do you mind? If I see?”

Wordlessly, you pulled back your sleeve. He stared at the asymmetric star-shaped mark with a sharp intake of breath and seemed to be processing something. Then he pulled back his own sleeve.

On his left inner wrist was the exact same mark.

You knew it would be there, but to see it with your own eyes was something you weren’t prepared for. It was the effect of seeing a matching wedding band on his finger multiplied tenfold.

You and Steve ended up at the wrought iron railing, looking out at the water.

“Back during the war, it was almost all I wanted, finding my soulmate. For a while, I…” He shifted on his feet. He was nervous. “Well, I thought I’d already found her. My soulmate.”

Understanding slowly dawned on you. You’d heard the stories.

Peggy Carter.

There was a sharp pang in your chest. How could you ever compete with someone like her?

“I thought I knew what it was, that feeling you get when you find the one,” Steve continued, willing you to meet his staid, sincere gaze. “But you have to know…you have to know nothing could’ve ever prepared me for what I felt when I first laid eyes on you.”

You swallowed thickly, a seed of hope daring to take root underneath your still aching heart.

“When everything changed, when I woke up from the ice, I thought that was it. It was all over for me. My chance had come and gone.” He shook his head, still in disbelief. “But then I found you. It took years, but I did it. I found you.”

“So you think it was fate? That brought you to this time?”

_To me?_

“Fate, destiny, whatever you wanna call it. This world…there’s so much more out there that we don’t understand, but whatever _this_ is, it’s not meant to hurt us. It can’t be.”

You placed your hand on top of his and he nearly jolted. Your first skin to skin contact.

He stared down at where the two of you touched, and then his larger hand turned to wrap around your palm, encasing your fingers.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to come to my senses,” he said. “Everything in me was screaming for me to go to you, to _be_ with you, but I was terrified. And when you didn’t call or text, that only reinforced the idea that you weren’t so thrilled about being matched with me.”

“I’m sorry,” you told him. “I had no idea it came off that way. I was just terrified as well. After the bookstore, I thought you didn’t wanna be with me, that you wished you’d gotten someone else. I mean, who could blame you? We come from two completely different worlds. You live in a world full of monsters and magic and I’m just another face in the crowd.”

“You could never be that,” he said seriously, then added with a half-smile, “And you live in the same world I do. Monsters, magic.”

“Yeah, but I have people like you to protect me from them.”

It took a moment for him to respond. When he did, he appeared dejected. “I’m not the guy who can guarantee you a normal life. There’s no knowing what I might be up against one day or the next. Things could change in a heartbeat. And you deserve so much more than that.”

“It’s no different from anyone else.”

“It is different.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re out there fighting for the whole world, but even on a smaller scale, things could change in a heartbeat for any of us. I could walk out of here in the next five seconds and get hit by a bus. There’s no knowing any of it.”

He sighed.

You tugged at his hand to get him to fully face you. “Steve, I get what you’re saying. Really, I do. But that feeling you were talking about, the one where everything in you was screaming for you to go to me? I feel it too. And you’re right, this can’t be meant to hurt us. Not intentionally. I don’t know much, but I know this _has_ to be worth it, no matter what happens. We’re in this together now, Steve.”

He watched you speak, never taking his eyes off of you. He nodded gently, his jaw taut, and only kept nodding as you continued.

“And if anything, all I can say is I’m sorry you drew the short end of the stick in this relationship. I can’t fight or shoot laser beams out of my head, but maybe we’ll be able to find something where it turns out I’m actually pretty bada—”

His lips were on yours.

He’d cupped your face with gentle, steady hands and brought his lips down to yours.

Your eyes were wide open for the first couple of seconds just from complete shock. But his mouth was insistent, so firm but tender that your eyes soon fell shut and you were falling into his kiss.

Somehow, wrapped up in him like that, you knew you’d never been so safe.

He kissed you even as the sun began its gradual descent over the horizon, but time had lost all meaning.

In that moment, it was you and him.

  


* * *

  


“Come in, come in! You’re a bit later than I expected. Thought I was gonna have to reheat the food.” Linda ushered the two of you in. Steve helped you out of your jacket before taking off his own.

“Sorry, Linda, we rushed to get over here, but we were a little ways away,” you said.

“Don’t worry about it, hun. Just get settled in while I go take care of the food.”

“I’ll help you,” said Steve.

“No need, Steve,” she told him.

“Really, Linda, it’s ok. I’d like to help.”

Linda smirked and guided him to the kitchen. “Alright, if you say so. The casserole’s in the oven and the mashed potatoes could do with some more thyme. I’ll be right in.”

Steve allowed himself to be guided away but before he rounded the corner, he turned to look back at you. You were unable to look away.

When he was gone, Linda turned to you with a coy expression.

You let out a breath, not even knowing where to begin. “Linda, you and I are gonna have a long chat later.”

She laughed, clapping her hands together before pulling you over with an arm hooked through yours. “How ’bout we start now?”

You opened your mouth, lost for words. In the end, you only managed to say, “How?”

She leaned in, lowering her voice. “He didn’t tell you about this building?”

You shook your head.

She sighed. “Well, I guess he’s gonna tell you this eventually anyway. The building across the street is the one he used to live in in the ’40s. I came home one day to find him standing on the sidewalk, staring up at it. He had his sunglasses, his baseball cap on so I didn’t recognize him right away. I…well, I don’t know how else to put it, I sensed something in him. A real sadness, maybe. So I invited him up for some tea and a little food, and that turned into a Sunday dinner every now and then. When I realized who he was, it didn’t change anything. He just seemed a lonely man, and I’d been without company at home for so long. I didn’t want to bother him too much, though; I know he’s a busy man. But he seemed to enjoy coming here, and he really did remind me a lot of Patrick.

“Then I saw your soul mark. Before that, I’d only seen his, and that was on accident. So I wondered if you two would eventually meet someway else, but then when I asked you to come over for dinner again, you said no, and so I knew that you still hadn’t met.” She chuckled. “Little did I know before that the man I kept pushing you to come meet was your soulmate.”

“And then after the incident at the bookstore?”

“He told me what had happened. That he’d finally met his soulmate in person after talking to her online for so long.”

“And he was scared,” you added quietly.

She nodded. “He was scared. But I think I knocked some sense into him because now here the two of you are, in my apartment all soulmated up and in love.”

Your heart fluttered heavily. “That’s—we’ve almost just met. I mean, we got to know each other through text and I do know him, but—”

In a maternal gesture, Linda swept the hair away from your face. “There’s still a lot to this life that I don’t know, but I did learn how it looks when two people are meant to be together. You and him, you’re it for each other.” She cupped your cheek tenderly. “Don’t fret. He may have had his first love all those years ago, or the beginnings of it…but you’ll be his last.”

The weight of her words remained in the back of your mind when Steve laughed freely next to you at the table later that evening. He took your hand, brought it up to his lips, caressed it with his thumb.

It was in his eyes whenever he looked at you and you could scarcely remember to breathe.

He was yours. You were his.

Always.


	4. Blind Reader/College AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For NJ, who requested: "Disabled reader, any disability as long as it's physical, falling with love with Steve but never admitting to the feelings thinking it would not be reciprocated."
> 
> Aaaaaaahhhhhh hi NJ, wherever you are! I don't even know if you'll see this. SORRY for taking forever with this! I hope you maybe still want this and that you enjoy it! This is a slow burn. I guess this really got away from me 'cause it's long as hell—about 11k words. Am I totally extra when it comes to these prompts or what? 😬😅
> 
> And I just feel I should say that this is in no way representative of all people who are blind or visually impaired. This is the experience of one individual—in this case, the reader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'd just like to do a quick shout out to Chris Evans as Steve Rogers because my husband is looking so fine in these trailers and, well, everywhere else that it makes me wanna cry. Also, who's ready to die after seeing Endgame?! 'Cause I know that's what I'll be after the movie. Dead. Died. Gone. 😔

“Hey.” He spoke carefully at first. “Guess we’re partners.”

You’d heard the footsteps drawing closer before you turned. They weren’t particularly loud or demanding, but you knew who they belonged to.

“Yeah.” There had to be a goofy smile on your face. Knowing you, you probably also had something stuck between your teeth.

“Uh, want to sit?” he asked.

“Yeah.” You felt for the chair behind you before plopping down on the seat. Steve’s chair made an identical screeching sound on the studio’s hardwood floor as he pulled his closer to yours.

“So, uh, how are you?” His voice warred with the rapid beating in your chest. You were acutely aware of both.

“I’m good, I’m good.” You nodded your head like an idiot. “How are you?”

You could hear the smile in his voice following his huff of amusement. “I’m alright.”

You racked your brain desperately for something to say. You weren’t prepared for this. Never had you thought you would be around him again, let alone be partnered with him in drama class.

“So…” His voice came from mildly differing directions. He’d probably turned in his seat to glance around the room. “Guess class isn’t all that different from English a couple years ago, huh?”

Oh. He remembered.

He rambled, “You know, I mean, we had that one assignment where we had to present those poems. I don’t know if you remember. I mean, it was a while ago, so maybe…never mind.”

“No, I remember,” you said. “And we had to basically act out our interpretation of the poem.”

“Yeah, yeah. God, it was horrible.”

“Guess it was just preparation for this class.”

“Yup. Every decision, every path we’ve taken in life, all leading up to this one glorious moment.”

You laughed. “So, what did you get?” You nodded toward the tiny strips of paper you assumed were in his hand.

“Oh, uh, let me take another look at it,” he murmured. “Let’s see…oh, wow, ok. I’m a superhero…” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Who wants to ask his partner out on a date.”

It was obviously going to be a skit, just pretend. But even the thought of him play-acting at wanting you in any way had your insides reacting something fierce. “Ok. And Marnie said whoever ended up as my partner would just read mine for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. I’ll just—I’ll just take those real quick, then.”

His hand didn’t come down on yours, so you reached out with the slips of paper you’d pulled from the jar. But you moved too quickly, and your knuckles jammed into his fingers. He’d been holding out his hand.

You drew back swiftly. “Oh, sorry!”

He laughed. “It’s ok, it’s my fault. I should’ve told you my hand was out. Here, it’s safe to hand them over now.”

More carefully this time, you reached your hand out, waiting for him to take the papers without making any contact. Then, unexpectedly, his warm, masculine hand cupped the back of yours, enveloping it, as the other gently pulled at the slips of paper. He withdrew smoothly, fingers sliding across the back of your hand.

Your mouth was dry.

“Ok, now brace yourself,” he said. “Looks like you got ‘someone who’s just discovered onions and thinks they’re the most amazing thing ever.’” He paused for your tiny snort before continuing, “And your objective is that you need to buy more eggs from the store.”

“Weird, they’re both food-related things. Ok, I guess I’ll take it.”

Marnie, the grad student who taught the class, spoke up from the front of the room. “Alright, everyone share their character and objective? Yeah? Ok, and now, each pair chooses an obstacle. Just one.” She flitted about the room with another jar filled with strips of paper.

When she got to you and Steve, he asked, “Want to do the honors?”

“Sure.” You held your hand out until it made contact with the jar and reached in to grab another slip.

“Good luck,” Marnie said in a sing-song voice before gliding away.

“What does it say?” You held it out so Steve could see. When he leaned in, you were able to catch the subtle hint of his cologne. Neat. Fresh. Masculine. Different from the soap you remembered he used to smell like, though its exact smell was long forgotten.

“A stubbed toe,” he said. “That’s all it says.”

“A stubbed toe. So that’s our obstacle.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad, right? We can make this work.”

Then there was a heavy shuffling noise coming from all sides. People were gathering their things to leave.

Marnie spoke up over the noise. “Since we got started on this later than I expected, I’ll send out an email explaining this assignment more in depth, and we’ll also talk about it more next class. But just remember, you only have two weeks till you have to present and we won’t be able to dedicate all of class to work on this assignment, so it’s best to make plans to meet with your partner outside of class. Alright, have a good day, everyone!”

You’d already reached for your backpack and could feel Steve standing near you as your other classmates passed by.

You hesitated, your face heated. “Want to get my contact information?”

“Sure.”

You read him your school email and phone number and had him type in his information on your phone.

You unraveled your cane and smiled. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t seem to know what to say, so you wished him a good day and turned.

“Where you headed?” his voice came from over your shoulder. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

You twisted around to face him. “Oh, I was just going to go to the dining hall for some lunch. I don’t have another class till two.”

“Oh. I’m free too. I was just going to head to the library.”

Before you could think about it, you jerked your head in the other direction. “Well, come on, then.”

Together, you left the dramatic arts building until you eventually reached the bustling quad of central campus. The hubbub was everywhere—it came from the medley of chatter as people passed, the chorus of staggered footsteps, the laughter and shouting, the bikes and occasional longboard whizzing by. In the midst of it all, you were able to concentrate on the _tap tap tap_ of your cane.

“So, you’re a senior, right?” Steve asked from beside you.

“Yeah. You are too?” Even though you already knew he was.

“Yup. What major are you?”

“English. And I’m minoring in Creative Writing.”

“Ah. Very cool. So you like to write?”

“Yeah,” you said sheepishly. “But whenever people hear someone say that, they think they must be some expert writer, but really, I’m not all that good at it. It’s just something I enjoy doing.”

“You’re probably selling yourself short, but I get it. And hey, you’re probably way better at it than me.”

“What’s your major?”

“Political Science, but I’m also minoring in Studio Art.”

“Oh. That’s really cool. I’m horrible at both.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you’re not.”

“Trust me, I am. Exhibit A.” As a joke, you gestured with your walking cane. “Probably wouldn’t want this person making you any kind of art.”

“Well, there’s different kinds of art,” he said casually. “And you don’t necessarily have to see to make art. Just, I don’t know, just feel. Oh, God, total Hallmark moment. Sorry.”

Your carefully affected levity disappeared for a brief moment when you felt something in your chest tighten at his words.

Then you let yourself really take it in. You were next to Steve, when you thought you’d never see him again. You were walking with him and by some bizarre circumstance, you had his attention.

All too soon, you reached the dining hall and Steve was opening the door for you.

“I got it.” The breeze from the wake of his movement hit you as he moved for the door.

“Thanks.” You tried to ignore the heavy fluttering in your stomach.

“No problem. Maybe I’ll shoot you a text later today? To talk about when we can meet up for our assignment.”

“Ok,” was all you could say as you moved past him through the entrance. The door remained open behind you. You turned back to him. His gaze felt steady, deliberate. You wondered what color his eyes were.

“Alright, well, have a good lunch,” he said. “See you in class Wednesday.”

“See you. I mean, see you as in…”

His laugh was genuine, and even with people streaming in and out of the building and the noise coming from deeper inside the dining area, it washed over you like something intimate. “Yeah,” he said. “See ya.”

You hoped your idiotic smile didn’t make you look like too much of a freak. With your thoughts and stomach swirling, you turned away and headed to lunch.

  


* * *

  


You first came to know him two years ago. It was English 120: British Literature, Medieval to 18th Century, and he’d sat a couple of rows over somewhere to your left. You often heard him speaking with classmates here and there before class started, and he participated in class discussions when necessary. He’d always come off as bright, perceptive, sensitive.

Then there was that moment where you’d accidentally knocked the braille textbook onto the floor as everyone was leaving and he’d picked it up for you as he passed by your desk. His voice had been so close when he said “Here you go” like it was a secret between you and him, and your heart had picked up speed of its own volition.

Then there was another moment where you bumped into him, literally. You’d been talking to someone just outside the classroom, body turning before your cane did, when he exited the room and ran into you. He’d thrown his hands out to steady you, apologizing profusely. From that brief encounter, you were able to glean general information about his height and what felt like a solid, impressive build. You also learned what it felt like to have his hands on you.

It was safe to say you’d developed more than a mild crush on him.

You didn’t talk to him after that. There was no reason or opportunity, and you weren’t brave enough anyway. You fed off the scraps of hearing his voice when he talked to others, spoke up in class, laughed with a friend as he passed by your desk to leave. For a time, you even thought you’d become familiar with his scent. But then the semester ended and he was no longer around, and the memory gradually faded.

You’d had crushes over the years and usually nothing came of them, but something about him stuck with you, something unexplainable and intense. He occupied your mind far more than he had any right to, and just the thought of him sent your stomach twisting and turning into knots. After that initial semester, when you no longer shared a class, you thought you’d heard his voice pass by just feet away as you walked the brick path, and you swore your heart had actually skipped a beat.

Resigning yourself to yet another fruitless infatuation, you moved on. Or so you thought.

Finding out he was in the same drama class two years later had been unexpected, to say the least. What were the chances?

The half-dormant thoughts of him came flooding back in an instant that first day of class when everyone went around introducing themselves and he’d said his name.

And now you were going to be his partner for the next two weeks.

Wednesday afternoon, you and Steve met up in the student union. You tapped along the floor with your cane, taking in the flurry of activity around you. People talked, chairs scraped against the floor, bagels and sandwiches were wrapped in thin paper over at the eatery.

Before you made it to the area Steve had texted he’d be at, you heard your name being called. You turned your head to the right where Steve’s voice had come from and heard his footsteps approaching.

“Hey, I’m just right over here,” he said before stopping in front of you. “Do you want to…?”

Catching his meaning, you said, “Oh! Yeah, thank you.”

“Alright, I’m right here.” He stood so close you could smell his cologne again, and you swore you could feel the heat emanating from his body.

Reaching out, your palm soon made contact with his thick, firm bicep.

Oh. You hadn’t felt _that_ part of him two years ago.

Your hand slid down the sleeve of his cotton t-shirt until it wrapped around the bare skin in the crook of his elbow. His skin was warm and he was as solid as you remembered, except maybe even more so.

“How are you?” he asked as he led you to where he sat.

“I’m fine. Well, a bird pooped on my lunch today, but other than that, I’m fine.”

“What?” He laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I was sitting outside at one of the patio tables and when I went to reach for my sandwich, I felt something wet and slimy on the bread. Thank goodness my fingers caught it before my mouth did.”

“Oh, man, that’s gross.”

“How about you? How’s your day been?” you asked.

He guided you into a chair at a small round table. “It’s alright,” he said, taking a seat at a right angle from yours. “Same as usual. Had an early morning class I hate—that was fun. And I kind of feel like my whole day’s been thrown off, to be honest. I usually like to run in the mornings, but I couldn’t today because of the storm.”

“Oh. Still, every morning? That’s commitment.”

“Well, not every morning. I do like my sleep.”

“Well, that, I’m a master at.”

He laughed, and it had you smiling. “Yeah, me too.”

When it became quiet again, you straightened your posture. “So, how should we do this?”

“Right, right. Better get started. Ok, so I went ahead and wrote out our prompts from class—the superhero, the just discovered onions thing and all that.”

“You remembered mine too?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t like it was a lot, so…”

You nodded. “You said you wrote it down? Like, on paper?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t completely sure if that was going to be a problem,” he said apologetically. “Is it? I can do something else.”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s just—do you mind if I type it all out instead, though? We can create a Google doc.”

“Oh, you sure?”

“Yeah, really, it’s no problem. I like typing. It’s kind of comforting.” You were already digging through your backpack for your laptop.

“Oh, ok. Yeah, no problem. Completely fine with me.” There was the _click clack_ of his pen as he tapped it against the table, then the sound of him typing on his own laptop. “So if you don’t mind me asking, how do you—” It sounded like he was gesturing in your direction. “You know.”

“Use my laptop?” You smirked.

“Yeah,” he said, and his tone suggested he thought he was the biggest idiot. “That was a stupid question, wasn’t it? God, forget I even said anything. Sorry.”

You shook your head to put him at ease. “It’s alright. It’s not a dumb question. I use VoiceOver. Some people use an electronic braille device, but I already had most of the keyboard layout imprinted in my brain before I went blind, having grown up with it and everything, so I just use my laptop. And the keys I didn’t remember I just had someone read out to me so I could memorize them. The braille device comes in handy sometimes too, but my laptop’s sufficient for schoolwork.”

“That’s why you had an earphone sometimes in English class,” said Steve. “To listen.”

He’d noticed that? Remembered?

“Yup, listen to this.” You angled the computer so he could better hear, then hit the keys. The automated voice that spoke as you navigated the controls came out at a rapid-fire pace.

“Jesus, that’s fast.” Steve was clearly in awe.

“You get used to it. This isn’t even really all that fast in the blind community.”

“Must be pretty cool to be able to hear that well. And not only that, but actually comprehend it.”

“Actually, it’s a myth that blind people have better senses than sighted people. It’s just that we learn to hone in on those other senses when we lose one of them. Like, if you were to take a blindfold and go around this room without your sense of sight, you’d start noticing your other senses way more.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah. So…the prompts.”

“Right, right, right.” He sat further upright in his seat.

You typed away. “You’re a superhero, I’m someone who’s just discovered onions for the first time and thinks they’re amazing. I need to buy more eggs from the store and you…want to ask me on a date, right? I mean, ask your partner out on a date.” It was downright silly because you couldn’t even see him to begin with, but you still felt compelled to avoid his eye.

“Right. I want to ask, uh, you out on a date.” He sounded like he talked with his hands.

“And our obstacle is a stubbed toe.” You continued typing.

“Yup.”

“Perfect. Now we just have to find some way to make this scene five minutes’ worth.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. We could start with…how about we’re next door neighbors in a big city and we run into each other in the hallway.”

“And it turns out I’m just on my way to get more eggs from the store.”

“And I could be on my way to fight some villainous mastermind of some sort. But I’m distracted by you and I stall our conversation ’cause I’m trying to buy more time in order to ask you out.”

“But then what can we do with the stubbed toe? And my whole thing with discovering onions for the first time?”

He clicked his tongue. “I don’t know. Maybe you go on about how you’ve just discovered this little something called onions and how amazing they are, and then…”

“I run back into my apartment to fetch one to show you amazing they are but stub my toe in the process.”

“Yeah. And it’s so bad you need a little recovery time before you can head out to the store.”

“Exactly how bad of a stubbed toe is it?” you teased.

“I don’t know, I’m grasping at straws here,” Steve said lightly. “You come up with something, then.”

“No, we can go with that. Ok, I need a little time to recover from the stubbed toe, then you ask if I’m alright…”

“And offer to help with your stubbed toe like the superhero I am. Then I ask you out.”

“So if your objective is met, how can I meet mine?” You pondered some more. “As an answer to your proposal, I say that we can start by going to the store together. Totally romantic place for a first date, right?”

“The best.”

“So, now how do we go about actually coming up with a script for this?”

“You tell me. You’re the writer,” he teased.

“I’m not a playwright.”

“You’re probably a hell of a lot better one than I am.”

You brushed him off. “Alright, alright. How about…I don’t know, the scene opens with you getting off the phone or something with your handler or whoever it is that superheroes talk to, and you leave your apartment to find me coming out of mine, and that’s when I go off about onions.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Wait, we never came up with character names.”

“I’ll be…Kent.”

“Like Clark Kent?”

“That obvious? Well, I never said I was clever.”

You laughed. “Kent it is. I’ll be…Layla. I just thought, onions have layers. Layers, Layla…”

This time, he sputtered out an amused sound. “Layers,” he repeated to himself. “Infallible logic right there.”

You shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips. “I never said I was clever either.”

Over the next few days, you and Steve came up with the bare bones of the script. He was attentive, funny, kind. The rush you felt around him, the one that felt like there was a roiling ocean right underneath your skin, never lessened.

You’d known it was coming, losing your sight. The diagnosis came at age eight and you and your parents thought you’d have your whole adulthood to go before your sight went. But it was a faster descent than anyone could have predicted, and then you were fourteen and without ninety percent of your vision.

There was still some light, or shadows of it. Your eyes were still open and often moving around. But there was nothing distinct, no discernible outlines of people and objects, not even fuzzy halfway-there images. It was like a perpetual darkest before the dawn.

Or maybe it wasn’t. You couldn’t be so sure anymore.

You’d once likened recalling your memories to the act of looking into the past, like an astronomer that looked through a telescope and caught a glimpse of a dying star as it was millions of years ago.

You supposed, by nature, memories were like that for all people, but your visual memories were static, lacking the broader context that other people had. Others had past and present to compare—you, only past. Your visual intake had hit a dead end, was roped off after fourteen, and anything else that appeared in your mind’s eye would stem purely from your imagination.

From then on, you would recall those memories like an astronomer looking through a telescope. Like traveling to the past, to a fixed point in time, only seeing that star for what it once was and nothing more.

It was strange, but sometimes you thought what you remembered as people’s faces were just made-up dreams. You’d clung to those memories of those dear to you, had promised yourself you’d never forget their faces. But you were only human, with a human memory, and as with most things, you knew deep down those memories you’d fought so hard to keep wouldn’t last forever.

It was rare, but there were occasions where you remembered, imagined with your hands. You’d run the pads of your fingers over your parents’ faces, have them describe what they looked like at that point in time, joke to you about how you could surely feel the wrinkles. You’d laugh along, ache with the need to see them for yourself, then put it out of your mind before the thought dragged you down too deep.

You didn’t often feel people’s faces. It was wholly intimate, too revealing. But as you spent more and more time with Steve, you found yourself wishing you could learn his.

The day you were set to present your scene, you felt Steve’s hands on you again.

You were in the hallway with your cane, somewhere outside the drama room when a classroom door opened and someone came barreling out of the room, nearly throwing you off balance.

You took several steps back before you hit a wall—or rather, an extremely unyielding male body. And right away, from that clean and crisp scent, you knew who it was.

Jeez, how built _was_ he?

His hands were wrapped firmly around your biceps. “It’s me. You alright?” The masculine timbre of his voice sounded somewhere above your right ear.

You nodded stupidly. “Uh-huh.”

The person who’d opened the door and nearly ran you over—a guy, apparently—offered his apologies before going on his way.

Steve’s hands remained where they were. The heat of his hands and his front penetrated the thin fabric of your sweater. He may as well have been touching bare skin.

“Some people really need to watch where they’re going.” Instead of dropping straight off, his hands glided down your arms, leaving only a phantom touch, and your back was quickly bereft of his heat when he moved away. He pushed open the door to the drama room. “You ready to kill it out there?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” You brushed past him, and the only thing you could think about was the sensation of his hands on your body.

Steve entered the room right behind you and you spent the next half hour or so of class next to each other in the makeshift row of chairs as you waited for your turn. When it came time for your scene, you took his arm and went up to the front.

After a moment to prepare, you began the scene.

Steve bumped into you in the make-believe hallway, doing a terrible job of seeming unsuspicious with his superhero identity, while you went on a spiel about onions. He started and stopped his sentences several times trying to ask you out, but you told him about how you needed to get more eggs from the store and dashed back into your apartment to fetch an onion and show it to him in all its glory. After he humored you, you ran back inside, stubbing your toe on the imaginary couch in the process. Steve came over when you called him in, and after helping ease the pain in your toe, he finally mustered the courage to ask you out. Your only response was to ask if there would be onions present.

The scene finished to laughter and applause as you bowed your head and returned to your seats together.

“Killed it,” he said, giving you a nudge.

Your answering smile was humorous, but a little tight. You’d been able to spend time with him because of the assignment, but after today, you would no longer have an excuse.

When class ended, everyone shuffled out in the usual fashion. Thinking that was it for your time with Steve, you left the room.

It wasn’t until you were out in the sunshine and navigating through the lively atmosphere of campus that you heard your name being called.

On reflex, you stopped and turned. Your name came again. Steve.

He jogged to a stop somewhere near you. “Hey. Sorry, I had to catch up. You were pretty fast there.”

“Oh, sorry.” Did he forget something?

“You off to lunch?”

“Yeah.” You wondered if your voice held as much confusion as you felt.

“Well, I don’t have much work to catch up on today and I’m free for the next hour or so. Want to grab a bite to eat together?”

For a second, you genuinely thought maybe you hadn’t heard him correctly. Your assignment was over; there was no longer a reason for you to spend time together.

“Um, ok.” Forcing yourself to keep cool, you walked alongside him to the dining hall.

“You have a meal plan?” he asked once you made it inside.

“Yeah.” As a senior who lived on campus, it was best for you to stick to the dining hall meal plan rather than eat out constantly. “Do you?”

“Nah, I don’t live on campus.”

“So you’ll have to pay to eat here? We can find somewhere else to eat.”

“No, no, it’s ok. Really, I’d have to pay regardless of where I go anyway.”

You nodded your acquiescence. After filling up your plate, you found an empty table, after which you were suddenly struck with a peculiar self-consciousness. He’d never seen you eat.

After a few minutes of slightly stilted conversation, Steve gave in to his curiosity.

“So,” he started carefully, “have you, you know, always been…”

“Blind?” You chuckled. “It’s ok, you can say it. No, I wasn’t born blind. I have something called Retinitis Pigmentosa. It’s a genetic disorder. And it’s degenerative, so there’s a progression in its effects. I was diagnosed when I was eight and lost most of my vision by fourteen.”

“So you can still see some things?”

“Not see, per se. I can perceive light, kind of like when you close your eyes and can still see the sunlight through your lids.”

“Wow. I can’t imagine going through something like that at that age.”

“I guess it was lucky I had time to prepare. It was just a lot less time than me and my parents expected.”

“Do you think it helped, knowing it was coming?”

You swallowed your green beans. “Sometimes. But sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been better not to know.” Then you thought about the things you were able to see and do in those six years between eight and fourteen. “No, I’m glad I knew it was coming. I came to terms with it. It was hard, especially with me being just a kid, but I had time to process it and I was able to scratch off a few things from my bucket list. Well, a lot of those things were from my parents’ bucket list, what they thought I might appreciate, but still. I can’t speak for other people, though.”

It was silent for a while, with only the chatter and clinking of silverware and miscellaneous sounds in the background. You hated the heaviness that had fallen over the conversation.

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” you muttered awkwardly.

“No. No, it’s just…I can’t help but admire people who go through that kind of hardship and come out on the other side stronger.” His tone was subdued.

“I was just making the most of the cards I was dealt.”

“Still, most people won’t ever have to go through that.”

You shrugged. “There are plenty of other things for people to go through.”

He let out a rueful huff of amusement. “I guess you’re right.”

You fiddled around the plate with your fork. “So, what kind of art do you do?”

You imagined he was caught off guard by the change in subject. “Nothing too fancy. I mostly keep things simple—graphite, charcoal, things like that.”

“What made you decide to minor in art?”

“I’ve always liked art, I suppose. It’s soothing, like a balm. It helps me relax, get out of my head for a while. Unfortunately, I’m not sure I have what it takes to be a struggling artist, so I had to pick a back-up for safe measure. So, Poli-Sci it was.”

“But you like it, political science?”

“It’s interesting, for sure, and stimulating.”

“Do you have any idea of what you want to do after graduation?”

He sighed out the weary, exasperated sigh of someone who was all too familiar with a question having been asked.

“Sorry,” you said, feeling stupid. “I hate when people ask me that too.”

“No, it’s ok. It’s a perfectly reasonable question. It’s just…alright, yeah, maybe I’ve been asked that question one too many times.” You shared a laugh. “If I actually had an answer, I probably wouldn’t dread it so much. But no, I might apply to grad school or at least stick around here after graduation. It’s a good area. I’m sure there are a lot of job opportunities. Now, how ’bout a taste of your own medicine? What are you planning on doing after graduation?”

You shrugged, unseeing gaze cast down at your plate. “I don’t know.”

“Are you from far away?”

“No, actually, I’m from a couple towns away.”

“Really? You’re from here?”

“About forty minutes, yeah.”

“Ah, so your parents are back there?” You nodded. “They must like having you close.”

“They do.”

“Did you always want to come here?”

You nodded. “First choice. I was just lucky it was close. I know most people want to go off on their own when they go to college, see more of the world, but I’ve always been fine with just sticking close to home.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You said nothing else.

The conversation then shifted to less substantial topics, which you were glad for, but it was no less enjoyable. Steve took up all your attention. You heard his sharp breaths, his chuckles and smiles, all the while almost wishing you’d never met him. You were certain what came of this semester would just be friendly interactions that would soon be forgotten on his end, and on your end, one-sided feelings that would amount to nothing. Your insecurities would always get the best of you.

But sometimes you weren’t the most sensible person, and so you continued to spend time with Steve. He sat next to you every drama class and afterward, it wasn’t unusual for him to catch up with you outside or even catch you before you could leave the room. Sometimes you went to a random spot on campus or to the library, finding a spot that wasn’t too stuffy that you couldn’t talk in hushed tones without being glared at.

He told you corny jokes and introduced you to friends who’d approach every once in a while. You went to different places for lunch in the strip of downtown on the edge of campus where he often encouraged you to get something you’d never tried before. You sat on the grass and soaked in the sunshine while he pestered you for help in perfecting an essay for his political theory class. Sometimes you made a game out of people-watching where he described a scene as he witnessed it and you made up the dialogue.

Over the many weeks, he became something you’d never expected he would—a friend.

He was your art. He was your balm. But more than that, he was the current that flowed through your veins. He electrified you and kept you on your toes at all the right times.

Your whole life you’d simply been living, but Steve made you feel alive.

It was sometime in the latter half of the semester when your next Drama assignment required the class to attend a play put on by the university’s resident theater company and write a report on it. The show was minutes from opening and you were in the front row of the house, tinkering with your headset as the rest of the theatergoers chatted, and you had just settled in when you felt two large hands cup your shoulders.

Startled, you jumped slightly and heard a familiar laugh behind you.

You twisted in your seat to face him. “Steve?”

“Maybe. What are the chances, right?”

“Are you sitting right behind me?”

“Yup.”

“You’re seeing this tonight too?”

“Yup.”

“Oh. I didn’t…” You trailed off, embarrassed.

“Didn’t…?”

“I didn’t smell you,” you muttered awkwardly, hoping he didn’t hear as you faced forward.

“I have a smell?” His tone was playful and curious, and his voice was closer. He’d leaned in. “What do I smell like?”

You waved it off, but he rapped the top of your shoulder blade with his knuckle. “Come on, I’m curious. I’ve never had anyone describe the way I smell before. What do I smell like?”

“Horrible,” you said, turning your head to the side. In actuality, he didn’t smell of his usual neat, crisp cologne, but his scent remained fresh and masculine, like mint and soap.

The cool breath that emitted from his chuckle ghosted across the back of your neck. “Well, I did play a game of pick-up with some buddies of mine before this, but I did make sure to shower.”

You suppressed your grin. “It’s tolerable, I guess.” You wished you could see his reaction.

“So is that where they—that earpiece, is that for…”

You fingered the earpiece. “Yeah, it’s for audio description. This one’s pre-recorded. It’s just someone describing the look of the scene, the action, stuff like that.”

“Ah, right. So—” His hand rested casually on your shoulder again. “You ever going to tell me what I smell like?”

“Leave me alone, Steve.” Playfully, you knocked his hand back with yours, but before you could move it away, he captured your hand in his firm grasp.

“I’ve been told I can be one determined bastard, just so you know.” His voice was deep and quiet, so close to your ear like he was telling you an intimate secret.

You mimicked outrage. “Language.” He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

It was only when you made a considerable effort to tug it away that he let go, letting his fingers glide across the soft skin of your hand so that you never lost contact until your hand dropped back to your lap. Swallowing, you straightened out in your seat and hoped he couldn’t see the flaming heat that had taken over the entirety of your face.

The play lasted about an hour and a half. Steve sat behind you the whole time, and it was as though you could sense every one of his movements. The play was a comedy and there were plenty of laughs, and each time Steve laughed out loud, you could hear his clear as day as they washed over you. You heard his sighs and the creaking of the chair when he shifted in his seat, the sound of pages turning as he sifted through his playbill.

You were so attuned to his presence you were practically a voyeur.

After the show was over and the audience filed out of the auditorium, you were reaching for your cane when Steve approached you.

“What’d you think of the show?” he asked.

“I liked it. It was really funny.”

“It was. I didn’t know what to expect, to be honest. My favorite part must’ve been when Robert decked the cardboard cutout thinking he hit his grandma.”

You laughed. “That was really funny.”

“So, you headed back to your dorm?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m headed back to my apartment too. Want to walk?” At your hesitation, he added, “My place is right off campus. It’s not like I’d be going out of my way, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You managed to nod. “Ok, if you’re sure.”

Forgoing your cane, you took his arm and returned your audio equipment before walking off into the night with him as your guide.

Breathing in the crisp autumn air, you listened as your combined footsteps mingled with the rustling leaves on the ground, the gentle breeze sending them off into a swirling dance of age-old renewal.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Steve murmured, low voice reverberating through his body and into yours.

“It is. It smells clean, fresh.”

“I’ve always preferred nights.” He must have seen your face angled toward him since he added, “It’s when the world is asleep and all is quiet. It’s when we’re allowed to put our worries to rest for a few hours and just forget.”

“Tell me what it looks like.”

“The night?” He clearly hadn’t expected for you to ask.

You nodded wordlessly. He cleared his throat.

“It’s not completely dark—it almost never is. The exterior lights of the buildings are on, the lampposts are on, and every time you step under them you feel a little naked, a little overexposed. The oak trees are as big as, if not bigger than the buildings. The leaves are a dark crimson or orange, some a forest green, but the colors are all muted in the dark, like shadows. Where we are right now, we can see the bell tower in the distance. The giant clock at the top is as illuminated as the moon.”

“What about up?”

He took a second to answer. “Up, it’s like a dark, dark indigo, the color of twilight, and the only things cutting through it are the pinpricks of light up there—the stars. Then there’s the light pollution casting a sort of thin haze over the sky so it’s never completely black. The moon is about half full right now, and it’s a pure bright light, shrouded by nothing, no clouds. You look up and you realize just how big it all is and how small everything else is. You can almost see infinity from down here.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

The breeze rustled through your hair, sending the strays flying, and he asked, “Do you remember what it looks like?”

“The night sky? Some of it. I looked up at it so much as a kid, but when you don’t see something for a while, you start to forget, and when you think you remember it you can’t be sure whether it’s real or if it’s just something your mind made up. I remember when I was a kid, I always used to wonder why it was so important for some people to keep a photograph of people important to them. And I used to wonder why it was always the photo album that people went back for in a fire. Now I know.”

It was silent for a few moments. “You lost your sight at fourteen?”

You nodded.

“Are there things you can’t remember? Or things you wish you could?”

You mulled it over for a second. “That’s a loaded question. I think I remember some things, or at least the general idea, like certain places and environments.”

“Like what?”

“The ocean. The waves, the sand, the way the light hits the water early in the morning. We went on family vacations to see the pyramids and a whole bunch of other stuff after I was diagnosed. I can remember these things somewhat, but of course I’ll never know if what I kept in my head truly matches the reality. When you said indigo earlier, I knew what you meant. I might not know the exact shade, but I can see it in my head because I knew it before.”

“And what about people?” he asked quietly.

“You mean specific people?”

“Yeah, I suppose, but I guess I meant people in general.”

You laughed lightly. “I remember what humans look like.”

He groaned. “Sorry, that was such a stupid question.”

You squeezed his bicep. “No, no! I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“I don’t want to make you feel like some science experiment by asking all these questions. I just…”

“Steve, you don’t have to apologize for anything. I get it. You’re being totally respectful, and better you ask me these things rather than just assume.” You squeezed his arm lightly. “Relax.”

The tension in his muscles eased up. “Alright.”

“So you asked me about people. Yeah, I remember what people look like. I remember what specific people look like, but…it’ll always be how they looked in the past. And I guess that scares me, that I won’t know what my parents look like, or my friends, when we all get older. I won’t know what _I_ look like. And if I just magically regained my sight, say, twenty years from now, would I even recognize myself? Or my parents? I have all these memories of other people, of my parents smiling at me, but the truth is, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to remember it forever. Any of it.”

“What if I drew it for you?”

“What?”

“Your memories. What if I drew them for you?”

You shook your head. “That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not. I could do it. You’d just describe them to me and I’d put it all down to paper.”

“But it’s not like I’d be able to see any of it.”

“I could describe them to you, whenever you want. Or even—we could have a written description put into braille, and any time you can’t be sure whether the memory’s real or not, you can read it.”

You trailed to a stop. He stopped with you. “Why would you do that for me?”

He was quiet for a long time. “I don’t know. You deserve it.”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you resumed your walk, pulling him along.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

“I’m thinking you’re crazy, Steve.”

“What? Why?”

“People don’t just do stuff like that.”

“Says who?”

“I don’t know, people?”

“Right, expert counterargument right there.”

You punched his arm with your free hand but he caught it with his again, and there was no thought on your end at all when you let that hand tangle with his before having it come to rest on his forearm. Your other hand, the one that was already around his bicep for guidance, slid down the sleeve of his sweater until it found his warm hand. It wrapped around yours instantly.

With one hand on his forearm and the other in his strong, comforting grip, you made the rest of the journey to your dorm.

The next week, you and Steve sat at a table on the first floor of the undergraduate library while he studied for an upcoming Political Contestation in Europe exam and you worked on translating some Middle English text for your Chaucer class.

You were in the middle of figuring out what a _gipoun_ was when something small hit you on the shoulder.

“Ow! What was that?” You took out your earphones.

“It was a bite-size Snickers,” came Steve’s voice from across the table. “I was saying your name, but you couldn’t hear me.”

“Well, in that case, this is mine now.” You reached for the chocolate bar that had fallen on your lap.

“Knock yourself out.”

“Did you need something?”

“Yeah, I wanted to ask if you’ve ever been to Romania. We were talking about different political systems in class today and I wasn’t sure if you may—”

“Steve!”

At the slightly hushed but enthusiastic female voice, you turned your head and heard footsteps approaching. You could smell the fragrant shampoo as the newcomer breezed to a stop at the table. Probably orchid.

“Sharon,” said Steve, pleasant surprise in his voice. He scooted his chair back and stood before they shared a lengthy hug. Your stomach churned.

“How’ve you been?” asked Sharon. “You’re looking good.” She definitely sounded like she knew him.

Steve remained standing. You imagined he didn’t know how to respond to the compliment. “I’ve been good. Still finding it hard to believe this is our last year. I have Sorenson for my political psychology seminar this semester.”

“Yikes. Is he as much of a hard ass as I warned you about?”

“That and much more. How have you been? Still doing work-study at the botanical garden?”

“Yup, still working there. And if I’m being totally honest, it’s pretty much the only thing I have to look forward to those three days a week. This semester has been pretty rough.”

“Well, hang in there. We’re almost done.”

There was a pause, then you could sense Sharon turning to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I completely interrupted you guys. Hi, I’m Sharon.”

“Sharon, she can’t—she can’t see that,” Steve informed her gently. She must have stuck out her hand. There was another pause.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely apologetic.

“No, I forgot to introduce you guys,” he told her. “Sharon, this is—”

You’d already risen from your seat and were quickly gathering your things. “No, no, it’s ok. I was just on my way out anyway.”

“You were?” asked Steve, confused.

“Yeah, I just—I forgot I was supposed to go see one of my professors about a paper that’s due. Her office hours are almost over.”

“Oh, uh—”

You stuffed your laptop away and faced Sharon, pasting on a smile. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” she said, confusion also coloring her tone.

You offered Steve the same distant, polite smile, glad for once that you couldn’t see him. You then rushed to move away but, in doing so, knocked into the umbrella Sharon must have leaned against the table.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry.” You fumbled out incoherent apologies and grabbed for the fallen umbrella, but you already looked like enough of an idiot by knocking it over.

“No, no, don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” said Sharon.

“Here—” Steve chimed in, and then there was a tangled mess of three people clambering for the stupid, elusive umbrella. Limbs bumped into each other and skin brushed across that of another and it seemed like no one would come out the victor when Steve said, “I got it—”

“No—” you said back, kneeling down, arm outstretched.

_Thunk._

There were two simultaneous groans of pain. You drew back with a quiet curse, hand to your forehead where it had rammed into Steve’s. Immediately, you were up on your feet, intending to clutch the edge of the table with your other hand when it bumped into Steve’s like he’d been trying to help you up.

“Um,” Sharon said. She moved down then back up. “I got it.”

You avoided Steve after that.

It wasn’t just the embarrassment from the whole ordeal with the umbrella. It was all of it—meeting Sharon and just sitting there while they caught up like old friends, or probably even more. You wouldn’t have been surprised, and you really had no way of knowing.

You’d let yourself be fooled into thinking you might actually one day have a chance with someone like Steve. He was cool and popular; you weren’t. He was probably stupid attractive; you weren’t. He was sighted; you weren’t.

You knew the last one was just an excuse to validate your insecurities. Plenty of people who were blind had fulfilling relationships with those who were sighted. Blindness wasn’t truly a hindrance if two people liked each other, but that was just it. You liked him, but you could see no way how he might have truly liked you back. You’d flirted a little, held hands, but you talked yourself into thinking that was his usual M.O. Maybe he was curious. Or worse, maybe he hung out with you out of pity.

If that wasn’t the case, Steve was leagues above you. Guys like him ended up with the Sharons of the world—Sharon, whose shampoo smelled nice and who was probably gorgeous and seemed perfectly kind and intelligent.

So for the next several weeks, you came into drama class later than you usually did and took a seat off to the side of the room, away from where Steve usually sat. You made short conversation when he caught you before you could leave at the end of class before hurrying away with some excuse.

Time passed, and you missed his voice, his scent, _him_ terribly, but you decided it was for the best.

The end of the semester was fast approaching and you were having lunch by yourself on the bottom floor of the student union. You had just finished off the last of your pasta salad when your phone sounded with a text message. You had the voiceover read it aloud.

_Hey. I was wondering if you could meet me in one of the art rooms in Pennington. I’ll be in room 226 on Friday afternoon. Let me know if you can make it._

Your heart pounded. Steve.

Your only question was: why?

Curiosity got the better of you, and you missed him so much there was an actual physical ache. It seemed you were a masochist now.

After much hesitation, you texted back.

_What time?_

You received a quick reply.

_2 but we can move it if that works best for you._

You deliberated over your response.

_2 works for me._

On Friday, you found Pennington Hall with just a little trouble. It was where the art department was housed and you’d only had one class there back during your first year.

After checking the braille on the plaque outside the door, you stepped into room 226.

Upon entering the room, you were instantly greeted by the warm sunlight that filtered in through what must have been floor-length windows. The room felt spacious, open and inviting.

When you heard your name, you had no doubt who it was.

“Hey,” you said unsurely, turning to face the direction his voice had come from.

He stepped over and took your hand, guiding you along.

“The teacher keeps the room open at certain times so we can come in and work on our projects,” Steve said as he led you to his workstation, a wide table on the opposite side of the door. Sitting on the desk were a couple of short pencils and a large sketchpad. You set your cane down next to the desk.

There must have been some obstacle in the way since he had to squeeze past you, and when he did, his hands came to lie on your waist as his massive front brushed across your back.

Breath faltering at the contact, and at his familiar crisp scent, you drew the pads of your fingers over the sketchpad, feeling the change in texture where something had been drawn. It was smooth in contrast to the subtle grittiness of the parts of paper that were blank.

“What is that?” you asked.

Steve took in an audible breath, but almost like he didn’t want you to hear. “My parents.”

“You drew your parents? That’s nice.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t say anything else.

Your fingers ran over the edge of the paper until they hit a glossy rectangular object. It was a photo, partially hidden under the top page of the sketchpad. “What’s this?”

“It’s what I’m modeling the sketch after. It’s a picture of my parents. From before I was born.”

“Oh. Are they…”

“They died, yeah.”

“Oh,” you said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. It’s alright. My dad died before I was born and my mom died four years ago.”

You couldn’t think of an appropriate response, only remembering that moment earlier in the semester in the dining hall when you’d told him there were other things for people to go through.

“What do they look like in the photo, or in the drawing?” you asked. “Can you describe it to me?”

He let out a breath before pulling the photo out further. “They’re at a friend’s barbecue, if I remember correctly, so they’re outside. It’s still light out. My dad’s sitting near his friends with a beer in his hand. He has short sandy blond hair, like sawdust, and he’s wearing a short-sleeve forest green button-down over a white t-shirt, and blue jeans. My mom’s standing beside him, leaning into him with her arms around his shoulders while he has one hand clutched around her arm. Her hair’s wavy and a more golden blonde, and she’s got one of those—what do you call ’em—rompers on, a light blue denim. They’re laughing at the camera like they’ve just been caught in the middle of some joke.”

“It sounds lovely. Why did you decide to draw this one?”

“The assignment was to choose a subject that was important to us.”

“Oh.”

“Which brings us to the whole purpose in coming here.” He shuffled around somewhere nearby.

“Yeah, why did you want me to meet you here anyway?”

He guided you to a stool he pulled up before taking a seat at his desk and flipping to a fresh page. “We’re going to draw your memories.”

Your stomach dipped. “What?”

“What?”

“We’re going to draw my memories?”

“Well, technically, I am. But you’re going to help by describing them to me…if you want.”

“This is impossible, Steve.”

“Except it’s not.”

“How is this even going to work? Taking something from my memory and having you paint a picture of it?”

“Crime sketch artists do it all the time.”

“But there’s no way for either of us to know if our visions truly match up.”

“It doesn’t have to be absolutely spot on. And you’re an English major—use your words.” You could hear the sass in his smirk.

You threw him an unamused look. “I don’t know, Steve…”

“It wouldn’t hurt to at least try, though, would it?” he asked more gently.

You shook your head, baffled by his persistence. Eventually, you gave in. “Alright, what could it hurt?”

You could tell he was pleased. “And honestly, no pressure. This isn’t going up in any galleries or anything. This is something for you alone to hold on to if you want.”

“In that case, shouldn’t I be the one telling you ‘no pressure’? You’re the one drawing.”

“No pressure on either of us, then.”

“Do you think you’ll finish it all in one go?”

“Honestly, it’s not likely. I just thought I’d get a head start on it today while you’re here with me. The rest I can always finish up on my own.” At your nod, he went on, “Ok, so what’s one memory you wouldn’t mind me drawing? Any memory.”

You exhaled, wondering uselessly how you’d landed yourself in such a spot. “I guess…one that pops up immediately is the time I was nine and my parents and I went on a safari in Tanzania and saw Mount Kilimanjaro.”

“Wow. That must’ve been incredible. What was it like?”

“It was the biggest thing I’d ever seen. We didn’t actually try to hike up it—I was far too young for that—but we did go on a safari and see all the animals while the mountain loomed in the background. I’d chosen that trip because I was obsessed with Mount Kilimanjaro at the time. It was just one of those things we learned about in elementary school and I was fascinated by it. I could probably tell you every single fact about it. Even now, I still associate it with fond memories.”

“Tell me what it looked like.”

You swallowed. “We were on a grassy plain on a warm spring day after having just seen some zebras. There were trees, but I don’t know what kind. They were leafy and—fluffy is the only word I can think of for it. And just sitting there in the background was the mountain, made up of three peaks. It looked so close you could touch it, like the moon does when it gets especially large, but I knew it must’ve taken hours, maybe days to get there. The sky was a pale blue, and the long strips of gray and white clouds hovered in front of the mountain like they were cutting it in half. At the top was the snow-capped peak. The whole thing was a sort of hazy gray, like you were looking through a fog. Looking back on it when I was older, I could see why the ancients thought that gods lived on the tops of those mountains.” You stopped when you heard the scratching of a pencil.

“Keep going,” said Steve. “I’m listening.”

“That’s it, really. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Ok. That’s ok.” More scratching.

Somehow, you felt you couldn’t interject with questions for fear of disrupting his work. You must have stopped and started several times because Steve said with humor, “You don’t have to be afraid to speak, you know. That’s sort of what you’re here for.”

You shook your head. “I’m ok.”

He let out of a huff of amusement, all the while never letting up his pencil.

“Are you going to add color?” you asked.

“I will. This is just to get started.”

It was silent save for the sound of his utensils as he worked. When he finished the rough depiction of the scene you’d laid out, he took your hand and guided it to the paper. He didn’t let go.

“What do you think?” he murmured.

Feeling out the sketch with his fingers atop yours, you noted the plain in the foreground and the line of trees just beyond them. Past that, you felt the outline of the enormous mountain and the clouds that partially obscured it. “Feels good to me,” you said, throat seizing up all of a sudden.

He’d actually done it. For you.

“If I were a sculptor, I could make a 3D rendition,” he said.

“Why are you doing this?” you blurted out.

“What?”

“This. This whole thing.” Your hand fell limp on the table underneath his. His hand drew back only slightly until you thought you could feel the heat of it right next to yours. “Drawing my memories, it takes time, it takes patience. You don’t have to do this, so why are you?”

“I told you. You deserve it.”

“But how? Why? You actually want to do all this?”

“Of course I do.”

“But why?”

“Because—” He grabbed the hand you had out on the table and clasped it with both of his. Then he raised it up to the side of his face. “Because it’s crazy and it shouldn’t make sense, but somehow, you see me. I’m surrounded by all these people with perfect vision, or at least functioning, and they all only see what they want to see.”

You had to hold in your gasp. Even with just your fingers, you could tell he was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that could break your heart and heal it at the same time.

“Go on,” he encouraged softly, and you knew what he meant.

He remained still and silent as you traced his features, learning the contours of his face. His hand rested loosely on yours as you mapped him out, and you knew right away that all your imaginings of what he looked like could never have lived up to the reality. He was breathtaking.

His cheekbones were high and well-defined, his brows taut and drawn together before you eased them apart with your thumb. His nose was long and straight with a small bump on the bridge, and his lips were plush, inviting and full, the bottom slightly fuller than the top. Underneath, his jaw was strong and masculine, with a hint of stubble.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” you breathed out without thought.

You felt as his cheek moved amid his soundless laughter.

“What color are your eyes?” you asked.

“Blue.”

“Blue,” you repeated. “What kind of blue?”

“I guess it depends on the day, what I’m wearing. Usually, I guess it’s…blue like a cornflower, or like a clear summer sky. There’s some green mixed in there too. I don’t know, I don’t know how to describe it. I don’t exactly stare at myself in the mirror all day, and I’m not so good with words. If I could paint it and show it to you, I would.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you told him. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

“If only you could take a look in the mirror.”

“What?”

“You. You’re beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

You looked away from the gaze you couldn’t see and began to withdraw your hand. He caught it with his, bringing your joined hands down to your lap before his other hand gently cupped your chin, bringing your gaze back up.

“Your eyes are…you can’t see me, but it’s like—it’s like I still feel you see right through me. And your smile…when you smile, I almost feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Why are you saying this?” you asked him, breathless. You swiftly rose from the stool and made to slip your hand from his but he held on, standing up with you.

“Because I have to. Because I’m tired of holding it in.”

“Holding it in? What are you talking about?” He’d moved closer and you took a step back.

One strong hand gripped your waist while the other cupped your cheek, fingers so large they spanned more than the length of your jaw. He was so close, invaded all your working senses. “Do you honestly not know by now?”

“I’m not—I don’t—”

The heavy pad of his thumb dropped onto your bottom lip, shutting you up. And it just stayed there.

Until his lips descended on yours.

Your eyes went wide with shock, but he didn’t let up.

His mouth was so soft and warm. He tasted a bit of spearmint, but more natural. You were tasting Steve as he was. His lips were sure and steady as though to lure you in, but in his movements was a dangerous undercurrent of a marked, undeniable passion and insistence that lit the pit of your belly up into flames. He was holding himself back.

When you kissed him back, when your lips moved fervently with his, he unleashed on you a fraction more of that desire whose unknown depths sent a shiver through your body, angling your face to deepen the kiss and pulling you closer with those strong arms so your body was flush with his.

Your lips were a tangled wire of incendiary nerves. Electricity coursed through every open vessel and vein in your body, from the tips of your fingers to the curl of your toes. His mouth was on your mouth and his hands were on your face and waist, but you felt him everywhere as surely as though he’d claimed every part of you.

A fire had been set, and you never wanted to be put out.

He sucked on your bottom lip as he took his time pulling back, nose practically nuzzling yours. You were both breathing hard.

“I’ve wanted to do that since sophomore year,” he told you, deep voice rumbling through your chest and inciting an intoxicating thrill over your entire body.

_What?_

He covered your hand with his where it lay on the back of his neck, finally getting to feel his hair, before he guided it down to rest over the left side of his chest. His heart was racing.

“Steve,” you whispered.

“Tell me the truth,” he replied. “Tell me why you avoided me after that day in the library.”

You couldn’t.

“Please,” he said. “I need to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to make sure it’s for a good reason if you’re going to walk away from this.”

Your heart clenched. You were still breathless. “What?”

He squeezed your waist. “Tell me.”

You dropped your head. His lips rested against your forehead. “I was scared.”

He drew back. “Of what?”

You couldn’t look up at him. “That I’m just a…a project. An experiment.”

You could practically hear his scowl. “You should know better by now. You have to know. Tell me the real reason.”

“That is the real reason—or part of it.” You’d reduced to mumbling by the end.

“So what’s the other part? Please. I need to know.”

“It’s just Sharon,” you mumbled again.

“What about her?”

“Why are you making me say all this?”

“Because it’s time to clear the air once and for all. We can’t go into this with any misunderstandings.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the certainty in his voice. The certainty that there was something to go into and that he was determined to do it. “I heard you talking to Sharon and I realized—I thought you liked her.” God, you sounded so stupid.

“Are you serious?” He sounded incredulous. “Sharon’s a friend. We’re both Poli-Sci majors and we’ve shared a couple classes since freshman year. And yes, we did try to date for a while back when we were freshmen, but we both quickly realized what a mistake that was. We only tried ’cause we thought it was expected of us more than anything.”

You clutched the front of his flannel shirt and squeezed your eyes shut momentarily. “I swear I’m not always this jealous. It’s just, I’ve liked you since that stupid sophomore English class too, ok? It was probably pathetic, seeing as we basically never talked and I was so sure I would never see you again after that semester. God, I still can’t believe it when you said you’ve wanted to kiss me since then.”

“Believe it,” he muttered, a hint of humor in his voice. “I was the biggest loser, pining away for you from a distance like that. You can imagine how I felt when I found out we ended up in the same drama class.”

When you didn’t respond, he tilted your chin up and grazed your cheek with his thumb. “Listen, whatever it is, whatever it will be, I want to work through it with you. Everything I told you—about how you see me—it’s true. All I have to do is look at you and my heart beats a mile per minute. I almost can’t function when I’m around you. I just wish you could see it too.”

“I do see it, Steve,” you told him, throat closing on itself. You raised your hand to his cheek. “I see you. I see in my dreams, you know? My vision’s not gone when I dream. But when I wake up, I realize I can’t see all over again, and sometimes I just lie there and cry. I dream about you sometimes. I can’t see you in them, but I dream of how you speak and laugh and how you sound, how you move. Even the way you smell. I dream of the way you make me feel.” You pressed your other hand to his heart. “I see you in that way.”

Ducking his head, Steve leaned into your touch and pressed a tender kiss to your palm, soft voice meant for your ears only. “That’s all I could ever ask for.”

You knew what he was saying, and he was right.

It was all anyone could ask for.

And for you and him, it would be more than enough.


	5. Cop Steve/Diner AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For yenneferofvengerberg, who requested: "a steve rogers cop au and reader is an innocent waitress at a diner! :D"
> 
> Again, sorry times a million for taking such a long time. 😣
> 
> I also feel compelled to say please don't take it as a slight that this is shorter than the others (if you even care about that)!! I just thought this prompt could be nicely filled and done justice to without there necessarily having to be a whole story around it. Hope you like!!

“He’s here again,” Shuri sings quietly after the door to the diner shuts, briefly letting in the mild autumn air.

You glance up from where you’re pouring a cup of coffee. “Hm?”

“Officer Rogers, my friend. And that too-fine-for-words partner of his, Officer Barnes? They’re here again.” Shuri discreetly glances over your shoulder as she wipes down the back counter and gives you a teasing look. “Gee, I wonder why.”

You roll your eyes, watching from the corner of your eye as the two men take their seats and set down their hats. “As if, Shuri. He’s a cop. He comes here for food and a break from all that…copping. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh. And that’s why he’s been coming here almost everyday for two weeks, am I right?”

“Maybe he likes _you_ , you ever think about that?” You play at getting in her face as you brush past her with the coffee pot.

She bats you away, letting out a clipped laugh. “Yeah, right. He’s nice and all that, but I’m not the one he stares at when I’m not looking, you get what I’m saying?”

Against your will, your belly flutters at her words as you set the coffee down in front of one of your customers. “Here you go, Stan. Let me know if you need anything else.”

You whirl around to address Shuri, but your eyes immediately lock instead with those of Officer Rogers where he and Officer Barnes, both in their black long-sleeved uniforms, sit farther down near the end of the counter. He gives you a small closed-lip smile and nod.

You have to remember how to smile back, hopefully in a way that doesn’t give away the sudden palpable racing of your heart. Turning to Shuri, you’re about to ask if she wants to take them, but she cuts you off with a raised brow.

“He’s all yours. And I’m just saying, it really should not be legal for two men to look like that, let alone together. Is there a way for civilians to petition for a new crime to be added to the handbooks? ‘Too good-looking to exist’? I think I could make that happen, yeah?”

“Yeah, you get on that, Shuri,” you say absently. You’re too preoccupied with collecting yourself as you approach the two men, and you have to resist the urge to fix your hair. As you near, they both look up from their menus.

“How you doin’ today, officers?” you say casually, taking out your notepad. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Hi there,” Officer Barnes says with a smile you can only describe as sly. “Yeah, I’ll have a Coke. And I think we’re about ready to order, right, Steve?” He flips the menu to check both sides.

The way Officer Rogers throws his partner a mildly exasperated look makes you certain there’s an in-joke there you’re not privy to. He looks at you then, and you try not to flounder under his intent gaze. With the faint remnants of that annoyance on his face, he says, “Yes, we’re ready to order. I’ll have the turkey omelette with fries, cole slaw and a root beer. Thank you.”

You write down his order. “And you want everything that comes on the omelette?”

“Yes.”

You nod and turn to Barnes. “No problem. And for you, sir?”

“I’ll get the blackjack club, all the works, and some mac and cheese on the side. And you don’t have to call me sir. Think we’re familiar enough faces by now, aren’t we?”

You chuckle nervously, unsure of how to respond.

“Leave her alone, Buck,” Rogers—Steve—mutters.

Barnes concedes, looking at you apologetically. “Of course, my mistake. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, no, it’s no problem. Just let me go put in your order and I’ll get your drinks right out.”

“Thank you,” Rogers says. You catch his eye for a brief moment before you turn and stick their order along the cookline window.

You’re glancing at them from the corner of your eye, noting how Barnes throws down a friendly hand on Rogers’s shoulder as they talk, when Shuri sidles up to you.

“So? Get his number yet?”

“They’re still on duty, Shuri,” you chide quietly. “That would be so unprofessional, not to mention unethical…right?”

“Maybe it’s different if you’re the one who offers your number.” She follows as you go to pour the drinks.

“Why are you so fixated on this? And don’t you have customers?”

“You forget how efficient I am, _umhlobo wam_.” Suppressing a grin, she leans a hand against the counter. “He’s looking again.”

“Stop it!” you whisper harshly.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. I need to live vicariously through _someone_.”

You glare as she moves away to attend to one of her customers. After readying the drinks, you return to Rogers and Barnes, the latter of whom is out of his seat and moving in the direction of the restrooms. Now alone, Rogers watches as you approach.

“Here you go.” You set down the drinks with a quiet thanks from him, finding you’re more unwilling than you should be to leave his company. “Can I get you anything else?”

He delivers one of his boyishly charming half-smiles, looking down at the counter as he does so. “No, thank you. I’ll let you know.”

You nod, ready to move on. You’re just about to turn away when he speaks up.

“You been working here long?”

To say you’re caught off guard is a bit of an understatement. In the weeks he’s come to the diner, he hasn’t really attempted to make much conversation, instead letting his partner do most of the talking.

 _Yeah, while he just sits there never taking his eyes off you and looking at you like you’re his last meal_ , Shuri’s voice rings loud and clear in your head.

_Damn it, Shuri._

“I’ve been here for about half a year,” you answer.

“Oh, not too bad,” he says. “I’ve been working with my partner here in the 20th for a while now, but it can be tough compromising on where to eat. Some days it’s almost as hard as taking care of the calls we get.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, I get that. How does it usually go?”

“Oh, it varies. He’ll be in the mood for Mexican and I’ll be craving shawarma or something. Just a tiny microcosm of our entire working relationship. Wouldn’t trade that guy for the world, though. He’s good people.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear,” you say, meaning it.

Then another customer comes in and takes a seat at the other far end of the counter, making no secret of the way he gives Rogers the side-eye. Neither of you fails to notice.

Rogers shrugs lightly. “Comes with the job,” he says before taking a sip of his drink. He then looks at the man at the other end, giving him a nod. “Sir.”

The man looks back with no response but the dismissive turn of his head as he goes back to his menu.

“It helps to be friendly with the kitchen staff,” Rogers informs you. “So we don’t have to worry so much about folks spitting in our food or any of those other less than savory things.”

A little time goes by as you attend to other customers before Rogers’s and Barnes’s orders are ready. The two men are only about five bites in when they receive a call from the dispatcher.

“ _Bravo 173, Bravo 129, dispatch_.”

They both reach for their shoulder radios.

“Bravo 173, go ahead,” Rogers says.

“Bravo 129,” says Barnes.

“ _Bravo 173 and Bravo 129 on a burglary investigation, 300 West End Ave, apartment D-delta 34. Complainant returned from vacation and found door unlocked, time lapse unknown. Complainant is an Asian female adult, 5’4” wearing a white blouse and black jeans, waiting at front door._ ”

“Central, Bravo 173, 20-B, en route,” says Rogers, already getting up.

“Bravo 129, 10-4,” says Barnes.

“ _Bravo 173, Bravo 129 at 1416._ ”

“We’ll be back to pay,” Rogers says to you.

“No, don’t worry about it,” you tell them, “Mike said he’d comp your meal.” This isn’t the first time they’ve been called in during lunch.

“All due respect, ma’am, we wouldn’t feel right doing that,” Barnes says as he grabs his hat. “Take care.” He then nods in parting to Shuri, who’s off to the side preparing a fresh brew of coffee, before heading for the door.

Rogers, however, stays behind. “Tell Mike we appreciate it but that last week was a one-time thing only. Can’t keep putting those ideas in his head.”

You can’t help the burgeoning smile taking over your face, which in turn has him smiling.

After retrieving his cap, he looks at you with a soft look in his eye. “Ma’am.”

“Officer Rogers.”

Then he quickly tamps down that annoyingly charming half-smile of his. He’s all business now. “Alright. Have a good day.” After sending a nod Shuri’s way, and one last glance at you, he follows Barnes out the door and to their squad car.

“No number today, eh?” Shuri appears at your ear. You shoo her away, which sends her laughing.

True to his word, he does come back—again and again until one day he comes in wearing civilian clothes.

And when he finally gets your number, you decide it’s worth it when you have to endure Shuri’s cackles and dances of joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _umhlobo wam_ : my friend


End file.
